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i^m'mm^m 


THE 


MILLS  OF  THE  GODS. 


A    NOVEL. 


BY 

MRS.   J.    H.    T WELLS. 


r  II  I  L  A  D  K  I.  P  H  I  A  : 

J.    B.    L  1  IM'  [  N  C  O  'V  V    &    C  O. 

1875- 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1875,  by 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   &   CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


?^ 


£900 


SHOULD  THIS   BOOK   HOLD   A  WORTHY   THOUGHT, 
A   NOBLE  SENTLMENT.   OR   A   TENDER   TOUCH   OF   FEELING, 

I   BEG   LEAVE  TO   DEDICATE   THEM   ALL 

TO   THE   LARGEST-HEARTED   OF  WOMEN,  THE   KINDEST  OF  FRIENDS, 
THE   MOST   DEVOTED   OF   MOTHERS, 

MY  OWN. 


■,-^.'^.0<^ 


THE    MILLS   OF  THE  GODS. 


BOOK    I. 


CHAPTER   I. 

It  was  the  last  night  of  the  Carnival  in  Rome.  During 
the  past  eight  days  the  fantastic  Harlequin  of  Mirth  had 
disported  himself  on  the  Corso,  amid  the  rainbow-decked 
balconies,  where  laughing-eyed  women  displayed  their 
beauty  in  coquettish,  flowery  warfare ;  at  every  window 
of  the  high,  dull  houses,  which  broke  out  all  over  in  smiles, 
and  ogles,  and  vari-colored  streamers ;  and  down  in  the 
narrow  street,  with  its  contrary  flow  of  carriages, — flower- 
and  frolic-laden, — and  its  jostling  crowd  of  masques  and 
r(?;?/i'//'/-intoxicated  roysterers. 

And  now  the  evening  of  "  Mardi  Gras"  rides  rollicking 
over  the  boisterous  waves  of  humanity,  which  had  roared 
and  rolled  high  in  the  fury  of  condensed  excitement  all 
through  that  sunny  day  which  ushered  in  Ash-Wednes- 
day. The  riderless  horses  had  run,  cheered  to  the  echo; 
the  last  bouquet  had  been  thrown  ;  arcli  glances  were 
deteriorating  into  weary  leers,  the  revelers  and  the  con- 
fetti had  become  exhausted,  and  the  carnival  of  flowers 
and  bonbons,  of  poetry  and  sentiment,  was  giving  place  to 
the  carnival  of  reckless  debauch,  of  unrestrained  license, 
of  frantic   excitement,  which  hides  no  blush  under  the 

I*  5 


6  THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

shadow  of  the  darkness,  and  cries,  "  Let  us  eat  and  drink, 
for  to-morrow  we  die  !" 

Half  the  world,  the  adventurous  and  the  canaille, 
were  making  night  a  Pandemonium  in  that  ingenious  de- 
vice of  the  devil, — the  struggle  to  extinguish  each  other's 
torches. 

Ye  gods !  when  one  contemplates  so  much  fierce 
energy  being  wasted  upon  a  senseless  sport,  one  is  tempted 
to  wonder  why  a  portion  of  that  frantic  zeal  is  never 
brought  to  bear  in  rekindling  an  illumination  in  this  dark- 
ened land,  which  would  -once  more  put  out  the  lesser  lights 
of  the  world  ! 

The  other  half  of  the  Roman  population  were  preparing 
to  array  themselves  in  fanciful  garb  for  the  concluding 
bal  masque  of  the  season. 

For  it  is  to  be  an  early  ball,  both  at  palazzo  and  theatre, 
— though  fast  and  furious,  for  the  chime  of  midnight,  like 
the  writing  on  the  wall  which  disturbed  the  serenity  of 
Balthazar's  coiivives,  will  startle  into  a  sudden  sobriety 
these  wild-eyed  Maenads,  these  laughing  rioters,  with  its 
solemn — "  Peace, — be  still !"  And  then  the  lauglUcr  of 
these  maniacs  will  terminate  in  groans,  their  flashing 
glances  will  be  quenched  in  tears,  while  their  confetti- 
soiled  hands  will  beat  the  breast  from  which  shall  issue 
one  cry,  Mea  culpa  ! 

Throughout  those  gala-days,  in  the  balconies  where 
the  fairest  of  his  countrywomen  dazzled  the  passers-by 
with  their  blush-rose  charms.  Dyke  Faucett  lounged  and 
lingered,  serenely  unruffled  as  a  lake  under  an  August 
moon,  amid  all  that  wild  uproar  of  sights  and  sounds, 
supplying  with  lavish  hand,  flowers,  bonbons,  compli- 
ments, ad  infinitum,  to  one  and  all  about  him  with 
impartial  liberality.  He  took  no  active  part  in  the  bom- 
bardment of  friend  or  foe,  feeling  that  he  had  done  his 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  7 

part  (by  far  the  least  exhausting),  in  supplying  ammunition 
for  his  fair  friends,  and  the  lazy  lids  drooped  occasionally 
over  his  handsome  eyes,  as  if  the  whole  thing  bored  him 
— and,    he   would    f,\in    have   been    elsewhere.      Of  the 
countless  fragrant  missiles  which  rarely  missed  their  mark 
and  which  fell  at  his  feet,  aimed  from  all  directions  with  a 
persistency  of  fire  which   showed  more  ardor  than  dis- 
cretion, Dyke  took  not  the  slightest  cognizance,  save  when 
they  struck  him  rather  too  obtrusively  in  the  face,  when 
his   eyebrows  would   elevate   themselves,  and    he  would 
murmur  in  the  ear  of  the  lovely  woman  who  stood  beside 
him,  "Shocking  bad  form  in  that  girl  opposite  to  bom- 
bard a  man  as  inoffensive  as  myself;  pray  send  her  two 
or  three  bonbonnieres  with  a  flag  of  truce, — de  via  part.'' 
"No,  no;  you  must  defend  yourself,"  laughed  Lady 
Jane  St.  Maur,  who  had  spent  six  out  of  seven  of  those 
latter  days  striving  assiduously  by  hook  or  by  crook  (a  good 
deal  by  crook)  to  force  that  cool  insouciance  to  betray  by 
some  little  galvanic  start  that  blood  flowed  through  those 
tranquil  pulses,  and  life  glowed  under  that  blonde,  delicate- 
tinted  epidermis.     But  for  Dyke  Faucett,  the  javelins  of 
all  the  Becky  Sharps  in  the  big  Vanity  Fair  of  the  world 
were  blunted  for  the  present  against  the  breast-plate  be- 
hind which  his  heart  was  shielded, — the  fierce  infatuation 
which  had  taken  possession  of  him,  to  which  he  had,  after 
many  ineffectual  struggles,  surrendered  himself.     Before 
the  innocence  and  purity  of  Dora  Fairfiix's  white  soul, 
he  had  thrown  down  his  weapons  of  worldly  wisdom,  and 
acknowledged  himself  defeated.     Had  her  fascination  for 
him  been  one  whit  less  powerful,  or  her  soul  one  shade 
less  clean,  the  cynical  callousness  which  had  stood  Dyke 
Faucett's  friend  on  many  similar  occasions  would  not  have 
deserted  him  now.     But  through  all  the  varied  experiences 
of  his  former  life,  he  had  never  encountered  such  combined 


8  THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

attractiveness  and  power  as  this  little  girl  possessed,  who 
first  drew  his  eyes  away  from  a  saint's  face  in  the  Vatican 
which  she  was  copying,  to  rest  in  undisguised  admiration 
upon  her  own  ;  and  then,  so  deftly  weaved  her  net  about 
him,  after  a  fortunate  accident  had  thrown  them  together, 
as  to  give  him  but  one  object  in  life  to  pursue,  which  he 
did  unremittingly,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  almost 
hopelessly,  until  within  a  fortnight  of  to-day. 

But  Lady  Jane  St.  Maur  had  not  despaired  ;  she  had  not 
gained  her  pre-eminence  in  London  drawing-rooms,  and 
Parisian  salons,  and  German  spas,  without  much  and 
arduous  labor,  and  she  did  not  dream  of  withered  laurels 
at  eight-and-twenty. 

"  Fi-donc,  mo?}  ami  !'''  she  cried,  gayly,  as  Dyke  daintily 
dusted  the  confetti-powder  from  his  coat-sleeve.  "Your 
indolence  is  itself  provocative,  and  challenges  attack ! 
You  set  yourself  up  as  a  target,  and — there  are  six  feet  of 
you,  remember;"  and  she  laughed  musically.  She.  was 
right ;  six  feet  of  comeliness,  dressed  by  Poole,  and  sur- 
mounted by  that  Antinous  head,  where  the  sunlight  brought 
out  the  gold  in  the  curly,  chestnut  chevelure,  could  not 
escape  disaster  through  those  gala-days,  when  every 
woman's  heart  rioted  in  a  little  tumultuous  orgie  of  its 
own. 

But  Dyke  Faucett  was  tired  of  it  all ;  there  were  few 
things  which  would  not  pall  upon  him  now ;  some  weeks 
ago  he  would  have  averred  that  there  was  nothing  that 
would  not  turn  to  ashes  on  his  sated  lips;  but  that  was 
some  weeks  ago. 

For  this  man,  in  the  flower  of  life,  with  the  beauty  of  a 
god  and  the  digestion  of  an  ostrich;  with  money  in  his 
purse,  and  the  world  before  him,  had  joined  that  noble 
army  of  martyrs  whom  the  demon  of  ennui  claims  as  its 
very  own  ;  and  after  years  of  delightful  travel,  bronzed  by 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  9 

tropic  suns  and  bleached  by  northern  frosts,  having 
plucked  the  fruit  of  the  knowledge-tree,  and  eaten  thereof 
in  every  clime  under  the  sun,  he  had  begun  to  taste  the 
bitterness  of  the  lees  lying  inevitably  at  the  bottom  of  the 
pleasure-cup,  and  to  groan  out  that  it  was  all  "  vanity  and 
vexation  of  spirit ;"  or  that  "  life  would  be  very  tolerable 
were  it  not  for  \\'=,  pleasures y 

And  now  all  this  noisy  rabble  had  begun  to  bore  him 
unutterably,  therefore  he  suggested  to  Lady  Jane  the 
delicious  tranquillity  of  an  inner  salon  ;  and  she,  nothing 
loth,  allowed  herself  to  be  seated  therein,  in  the  most 
comfortable  of  caiiseitses,  placed  at  precisely  the  correct 
angle  for  the  display  of  her  faultless  profile,  which  Dyke 
compared  mentally  with  that  of  little  Dora,  to  the  detri- 
ment of  the  one  before  him. 

Of  which  fact  Lady  Jane — making  the  most  of  this 
blessed  opportunity  which  the  gods  had  thrown  in  her 
way — remained  in  blissful  ignorance. 

And  Dyke  Faucett  simply  endured  the  slow-crawling 
hours  until  the  moment  arrived  when,  with  the  plea  of  an 
imperative  engagement,  he  freed  himself  from  the  toils 
which  this  young  lady  flattered  herself  were  strengthening 
momentarily,  and,  at  nine  o'clock,  after  a  hasty  dinner 
and  a  careful  toilet,  he  sprang  into  his  cab  with  the  first 
sensation  of  pleasure  he  had  felt  that  day. 

With  a  domino  thrown  carelessly  over  his  brilliant 
courtier-dress  of  the  Elizabethan  days  (having  ordered  his 
man  to  drive  to  the  Via  Babuino),  he  leaned  back  on  the 
cushions  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction,  picturing  to  himself 
Dora's  surprise  at  his  novel  appearance.  Poor  Dora  ! 
during  all  these  merry-making  days  and  nights  she  had 
not  left  her  father's  side,  who,  suffering  from  an  attac  k 
of  rheumatic  gout,  which  crippled  him,  was  pitiably  de- 
pendent upon  her  tender  nursing  and  companionship. 

A* 


lO  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

The  long,  monotonous  days  held  for  her  but  the  couple 
of  hours  of  delight  when  Dyke  Faucett  could  tear  himself 
away  from  the  claims  of  his  friends  and  acquaintances, 
and  in  the  interval  between  dinner  and  ball  seek  the  un- 
fashionable Via  Babuino,  where  Dora  watched  and  waited 
for  his  coming  as  the  one  great  gladness  of  her  day.  For 
she  loved  this  man  unselfishly,  devotedly,  seeing  only  in 
him  the  incarnation  of  her  own  love-dream ;  thanking 
God  with  tears  for  the  blessing  of  his  love,  and  praying 
to  grow  worthier  of  it. 

And  thus  another  problem  was  cast  forth,  which  will  not 
know  solution  until  the  dawning  of  that  day  when  we 
shall  learn  the  answers  to  many  vexing  questions ;  among 
others,  why  Desdemonas  wed  with  Moors. 

When  Sardyx,  of  mythical  memory,  went  forth  to  bat- 
tle armed  with  the  magic  javelin  which  never  went  foul  of 
the  mark,  pressed  into  his  hands  by  the  beautiful  Aglaia, 
wet  with  her  tears  and  followed  by  her  prayers,  did  a 
vision  of  the  triumphant  return  of  the  victor  accompanied 
by  a  newer,  not  fairer,  mistress,  cast  its  long,  drear  shadow 
over  all  the  days  that  parted  them  ? 

And  when  within  a  few  miles  of  his  native  city,  Aglaia 
rushed  forth  to  meet  her  hero  with  wide-stretched  arms, 
did  the  sight  which  greeted  her  pierce  less  murderously 
her  faithful  heart,  than  the  fatal  javelin  hurled  by  the 
hand  of  him  she  loved,  as  the  surest  and  speediest  method 
of  ridding  himself  of  an  incumbrance?  Was  it  the  stir- 
ring of  this  legend  in  her  brain,  or  was  it  only  the  hope 
deferred  of  lonely  waiting  in  the  sad,  still  twilight  through 
two  long  hours,  which  has  given  that  downward  curve  to 
Dora's  sweet  mouth  to-night,  and  the  far-away,  prescient 
gaze  out  into  the  gathering  darkness?  Or  is  her  guardian 
angel  drawing  aside  the  veil  from  the  future  years  and 
showing  her  the  gaunt  spectre  of  that  life  into  which  the 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  n 

beautiful  present  has  been  transformed  ?  I  know  not ; 
but  true  it  is,  that  in  the  pose  of  the  slender  form,  white- 
robed  and  fragile  as  a  lily,  there  was  a  certain  pensive 
listlessness  as  she  leaned  against  the  railing  that  guarded 
the  window,  with  her  graceful  head  bent  in  a  despondent 
curve.  How  exquisitely  lovely  she  looked  standing  thus, 
with  her  slender,  white  hands  clasped  before  her,  while 
the  round  arms  gleamed  like  polished  marble  through  the 
transparent  muslin  !  No  ornament  detracted  from  her 
pure  loveliness,  a  fragrant  bunch  of  double  violets  closed 
the  lace  frills  across  her  white  throat,  and  a  knot  of  the 
same  love-breathing  flowers  nestled  among  the  rich  braids 
of  her  sunny  hair. 

Against  the  dusky  background'of  her  little  sitting-room, 
Avith  its  paucity  of  furniture,  its  wealth  of  pictures,  books, 
statuettes,  its  harp  in  one  corner,  and  its  little  hired  piano 
in  another,  its  white-shaded  lamp  not  yet  lighted,  and  its 
wild  flowers  everywhere,  Dora  offered  as  fair  a  study  of 
"II  Penseroso"  as  any  artist,  however  ambitious,  could 
desire. 

So  thought  Dyke  Faucett,  as,  opening  the  door  noise- 
lessly, he  stole  upon  her  unawares,  to  watch  her  surprise 
and  wonder  at  his  flmciful  garb. 

She  was  so  absorbed  in  her  reverie  that  he  stood  and 
watched  her  silently  for  a  moment,  and  then  advanced. 
With  a  faint  cry  she  sprang  aside,  and  it  was  not  until  he 
had  removed  quickly  the  pointed  beard  which  belonged  to 
the  era  he  represented,  that  she  recovered  from  her  alarm. 
"  Did  I  startle  you,  my  little  fawn  ?"  cried  Dyke,  caressing 
her  hand  with  his,  after  he  had  bent  and  kissed  her  lightly 
on  the  cheek  ;  "  did  you  not  know  me  at  all?" 

"Who  are  }ou,  ])ray?"  she  laughed,  wliile  the  color 
came  back  to  her  clifck  and  the  gleaming  jt)y  to  her  eyes. 
"Arc   you    the   beloved    Essex   or   the   gallant    Raleigh? 


12         THE  MILLS   OF  THE    CODS. 

You  are  very  gorgeous,  whoever  you  are;  I  feel  a  great 
want  of  court-train  and  jewels  at  this  moment." 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder.  "  Court-train  and 
jewels  would  not  add  royalty  to  that  gracious  head  or  this 
perfect  form,  ma  mic.  I  would  not  have  you  other  than 
you  are  at  this  moment.  Ah,  if  you  only  knew  how  sick 
unto  death  I  am  of  satins  and  gems,  pearl-powder  and 
rouge,  and  how  divinely  sweet  you  seem  to  me  in  your 
white  gown  and  violets.  Oh,  Dora  !"  he  exclaimed,  with 
the  nearest  approach  to  passion  he  had  ever  before  allowed 
to  thrill  in  his  voice, — **  Dora,  I  am  growing  tired  of  wait- 
ing for  you.  My  love,  why  can  you  not  come  into  my 
life  now  and  make  it  perfect?" 

His  arm  stole  about  her,  and  for  a  moment  she  simply 
existed,  nothing  more.  And  then  she  roused  herself. 
"  Dyke,  I  have  talked  with  my  father  to-day,  a  long,  long 
time,  and  he  is  opposed  to  our  clandestine  marriage. 
Wait,  darling,"  for  Dyke  was  about  to  interrupt  her  im- 
patiently ;  "he  says  I  am  very  young, — not  nineteen,  you 
know, — and  we  can  wait ;  that  no  good  ever  comes  of 
secret  marriages,  and " 

"  That  is  all  arrant  nonsense,"  commented  Dyke.  "  My 
guardian  cannot  live  forever,  and  after  his  death  there  is 
no  one  on  earth  to  dictate  to  me.  I  know,  Dora,  that  he 
has  other  views  for  me,  and  would  never  consent  to  this 
marriage.  Oh,  my  darling,  do  not  start  away  from  me 
like  that !  I  resent  his  narrow-minded  injustice  as  much 
as  you  possibly  can,  my  peerless  pearl,  but  would  you  have 
jne  wait  for  you  tlirough  all  the  long  years  which  may  in- 
tervene before  his  death?  Can  you  thrust  me  away  from 
you, — say,  Dora,  ca/i  yon  do  this  thing?" 

Her  face  grew  very  white,  but  she  answered,  in  a  clear, 
firm  voice,  "  Yes,  Dyke,  I  could  thrust  you  away  from  me 
forever,  and  pluck  my  love  for  you  nut  of  my  heart  by  the 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  13 

roots,  before  I  could  consent  to  live  under  the  foul  cover 
of  deceit  and  falsehood  which  this  secret  marriage  might 
entail,  through  years  and  years  of  hopeless  self-contempt." 

"  No,  Dora,  that  need  not  be.  Were  my  guardian  to 
see  you  in  your  winning  beauty,  with  your  many  gifts, 
and  know  that  you  were  irrevocably  bound  to  me,  he  could 
not  then  refuse  to  sanction  and  bless  our  marriage.  Ah, 
you  are  but  a  child,  and  /  know  the  world,  and  my 
guardian  above  allj  can  you  not  trust  to  me?" 

"  How  long  would  it  be  necessary  to  keep  it  a  secret?" 
she  asked,  her  tears  falling  fast. 

"  Perhaps  a  couple  of  months;  only  until  I  could  go  over 
to  England  and  prepare  his  mind  for  your  reception,  dear- 
est, and  then  I  should  come  for  you  and  your  father,  and, 
oh,  Dora,  my  perfect  one,  can  you  imagine  our  happiness 
and  still  turn  from  me?" 

"  I  will  do  whatever  you  say.  Dyke.  I  will  trust  you 
to  the  end  !"  Her  last  words  were  smothered  in  frantic 
kisses.  As  he  clasped  her  to  his  heart  a  pang  of  remorse 
shot  through  him, — the  last, — it  was  the  death-sigh  of  his 
conscience,  which  died  that  night  forever  in  this  world. 

It  was  after  eleven  o'clock  when  he  left  her ;  and  she 
had  promised  to  meet  him  two  days  hence,  in  the  early 
morning,  outside  the  "Porta del  Popolo,"  where  the  Eng- 
lish Chapel  stood,  to  ratify  by  sacred  vows  the  trust  she 
had  promised  to  place  in  him.  He  could  scarcely  tear 
himself  away  from  her,  so  fearful  was  he  that  his  prize 
would  elude  his  grasp;  so  more  than  beautiful  she  looked, 
in  the  full  rays  of  the  moon,  which  bathed  her  in  its 
mystic  gleams,  and  made  her  almost  too  spiritual  in  its 
glory.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed  with  happiness,  her  eyes 
shone  like  stars,  and  her  scarlet  lips  showed  the  tiny  pearls 
behind  them  in  a  divine  smile.  "Oh,  Dora,  turn  away 
from  me,  else  1  cannot  leave  you,"  pleaded  Faucell,  com- 


14         THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

pletely  intoxicated.  She  smiled  more  bewilderingly  than 
ever,  and  stretched  out  both  hands  to  him;  but,  choking 
down  an  exclamation.  Dyke,  without  one  other  word, 
turned  to  the  door  and  fled. 

Dora  stood  amazed;  what  did  this  mean, — this  abrupt 
flitting,  this  disregard  of  her  last  good-night?  She  sank 
into  a  chair,  and  mused  until  the  light  faded  out  of  her 
face,  and — 

"  The  soft,  sad  eyes 
Set  like  twilight  plan-ets  in  the  rainy  skies, 
With  the  brow  all  patience  and  the  lips  all  pain! " 

bore  more  likeness  to  tlie  fair,  doomed  Iphigenia,  than  to 
a  young  bride-elect,  standing  with  trembling  but  joyous 
feet  almost  on  the  threshold  of  her  wedding-day. 

For  two  hours,  in  that  ghostly  moonshine,  she  sat,  shift- 
ing her  fate  from  hand  to  hand.  It  was  not  yet  too  late; 
her  promise  had  been  wrung  from  her,  it  is  true,  but  could 
she  but  convince  herself  that  this  necessary  deception  was 
unjustifiable,  even  as  the  price  of  such  unutterable  happi- 
ness, she  would  not  hesitate  to  retract  her  weak  words; 
and  then, — Dyke  Faucett,  unwilling  to  bide  the  time  in 
that  far-stretching  future  which  seemed  so  illimitable  to 
her  childish  gaze,  they  must  part,  part  forever;  he  going 
back  to  his  world  of  fashion  and  beauty  (ah,  what  lovely 
faces  she  had  seen  with  him  in  the  galleries  of  art!  where 
he  only  acknowledged  her  existence  by  a  courteous  raising 
of  the  hat,  wliich  generally  drew  upon  her  llic  lorgnonsof 
his  coniijaniuns,  antl  more  or  less  audible  critiques  on  her 
rare  type  of  beauty),  and  she, — well,  the  light  would  have 
been  put  out  of  her  life  forever,  and  there  would  be  no- 
thing left  for  her  in  the  dreary,  vacant  years  to  come  but 
her  father,  wliose  life  was  well-nigh  spent,  she  remembered 
with  a  pang, — antl — 

"The  coiled  memory  munli  and  cold, 
That  slept  in  tier  heart,  a  droaniiiig  snake," 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  15 

that  would 

"  Drowsily  lift  itself  fold  by  fold, 
And  gnaw,  and  gnaw,  hungrily,  half  awake." 

And  who  was  this  guardian,  whoee  narrow  prejudices 
were  to  crowd  back  into  the  green  bud  all  the  full-ex- 
panded glories  of  this  gorgeous  tropic  flower  of  love,  which 
had  absorbed  even  her  vital  forces  in  its  luxuriant  growth? 
Not  even  had  he  claim  of  blood,  or  kindred,  ui)on  this  man 
whom  he  hoped  to  sacrifice  upon  some  Mammon's  altar, 
whilst  his  heart  beat  only  for  her.  And  what  objections 
could  this  arrogant,  selfish,  wicked  old  aristocrat  bring 
forward  against  her,  when  she  should  appear  in  his  stiff, 
mildewy  old  castle  as  his  adopted  son's  bride?  She  was 
certainly  well  born  ;  was  not  her  mother's  name  one  of 
the  proudest  in  the  peerage?  And  her  father?  Well, 
she  did  not  know  much  about  his  people;'  but  who  could 
look  at  him  and  doubt  his  blue  blood  ?  Surely  Dyke's 
guardian  could  not  fail  to  acknowledge  that?  (Himself, 
perhaps,  merely  a  wealthy  old  cotton-spinner;  she  had 
read  of  the  aristocracy  of  the  spinning-jenny  far  over- 
topping, in  intolerant  haughtiness,  the  quiet  good  breed- 
ing fed  from  the  j-a/;^'--as//r  of  centuries.)  "Personally, 
he  could  not  object  to  me,"  she  dreamed  on,  with  a  slight 
flush  of  conscious  vanity  dyeing  her  cheek  in  the  moon- 
light. "Surely  I  am  as  good-looking,  and  better  man- 
nered than  those  hoyden  English  girls,  who  would  rattle  on 
so,  during  service  at  St.  Peter's  ;  and  I  am  well  educated ! 
Ah  !  but  I  am  poor, — and  this  guardian  would  like  to 
marry  Dyke  to  a  great,  big-footed,  red-cheeked  daughter 
of  some  old  money-bags,  who  cannot  spell  his  own  name, 
— and  hasn't  one  to  spell,  if  he  could.  Fancy  Dyke,  my 
refined,  fastidious,  purely  artistic  Dyke,  chained  to  such 
a  monster  1"     A  dimpling  smile  broke  out  over  the  sweet 


l6         THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

face,  and  long  before  her  father's  voice,  calling  "Doro- 
thea! Dorothea!"  disturbed  her  reverie,  she  had  fully 
decided  the  subject  of  the' "  Porta  del  Popolo;"  for  her 
love  once  given,  she  felt  was — 

"  Like  water  spilt  upon  the  plain  : 
Ne'er  to  be  gathered  up  again." 

And  what  did  those  four  words,  "  for  better,  for  worse," 
mean,  if  one  were  not  willing,  in  joining  hands,  to  con- 
front fate,  for  weal  or  woe  ? 


CHAPTER     II. 

"Dorothea,  you  are  not  looking  well ;  you  are  pale, 
and  your  eyes  are  heavy,  my  patient  little  nurse!  What 
have  you  done  with  the  roses  you  brought  liome  from  our 
summer  trip  in  Switzerland,  my  child,  and  the  glad, 
bright  eyes?" 

Dora,  sitting  in  a  low  American  rocking-chair,  with  the 
frill  she  had  been  hemming  lying  in  a  white  heap  upon  the 
carpet,  rocked  herself  gently,  with  arms  upraised  and  hands 
clasped  at  the  back  of  her  head,  whilst  her  eyes  looked 
dreamily  beyond  the  figure  of  her  father  in  his  dressing- 
gown  and  easy-chair,  with  each  wretched  foot  swathed  in 
flannel  and  occupying  separate  foot-stools  (little  thrones 
of  exquisite  pain  these  were  to  him),  answered,  in  a  far-off 
voice,  "Yes,  dear;   did  you  want  something,  papa?" 

"Dora,"  began  her  father,  leaning  slightly  forward, 
but  immediately  drawing  back  again  with  the  wryest  face, 
the  least  movement  causing  a  twinge  of  agony.  "  Dora, 
you  are  vexing  yourself  about  this  young  Faucett.     Now, 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  17 

don't  contradict  me"  (she  had  not  moved  or  spoken); 
"and  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  put  an  end  to  the 
aifair,  for  good  and  all,  as  soon  as  I  am  able  to  put  my 
feet  to  the  ground  !" 

Down  went  Dora's  arms;  the  rocking-chair  was  arrested 
at  an  angle.     "  Papa  !"  was  all  she  could  exclaim. 

"Yes;  I  am  quite  determined.  Since  Mr.  Faucett  has 
no  power  of  choice  in  his  selection  of  a  wife,  and  declines 
to  take  the  trouble  to  obtain  the  consent  of  his  guardian 
(who  is  he,  by  the  way?  I  will  write  to  him  myself), 
I  shall  not  sit  quietly  by  and  see  him  take  the  sunshine 
out  of  my  life,  and  fade  my  little  Dora  into  a  colorless 
snow-drop." 

"  What  will  you  do?"  she  gasped. 

"I  shall  just  give  up  this  little  home,  where  we  have 
spent  four  happy  years,  and  go  back  to  see  how  the  beeches 
have  grown  about  our  old  English  homestead.  I  feel  that  I 
will  not  be  with  you  long,  Dora,  and  I  must  look  up  some 
trusty  friends  to  leave  about  you  before  I  go;  and"  (in  a 
low,  tender  voice  here)  "I  should  like  to  kneel  at  my 
darling  Marian's  grave  once  more,  and  maybe,  if  it  please 
God,  to  be  laid  at  rest  beside  her." 

Dora's  arms  were  about  his  silvered  head  now,  and  her 
tears  falling  fast  upon  it.  She  could  not  speak.  A  great 
fear  mingled  with  a  great  joy  and  stifled  her.  Could  this 
day  pass  without  her  innocent  heart  and  face  betraying 
her  now  fixed  purpose  of  taking  destiny  by  the  horns  on 
the  morrow?  If  he  pressed  her  with  questions,  she  must 
tell  him  all,  and  throw  herself  on  his  mercy  and  love. 

"  Papa,  you  break  my  heart  when  you  speak  of  leaving 
me.  Ah,  what  sad  thoughts  have  come  to  you  since  this 
cruel  pain  has  tortured  you  !  But  you  must  not  think 
such  things;  you  will  soon  be  well  again,  and  able  to  go 
into  the  sunshine,  and  to  see  your  friends,  who  have  been 

2* 


1 8  THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

SO  kind  since  your  illness.  Papa,  Major  Goodwin  called 
again,  yesterday,  to  inquire  for  you,  and  he  asked  if  you 
would  be  able  to  have  him  come  and  read  to  you  to-day 
or  to-morrow." 

"Surface-friends!"  sighed  Mr.  Fairfax;  "very  kind, 
no  doubt,  but  friends  of  an  hour,  or  a  fortnight,  at  longest, 
who  turn  their  backs  and  forget  you  utterly.  Did  you  say 
he  might  come?" 

"Yes,  to-morrow."  Dora's  cheeks  burned,  but  she 
was  standing  behind  her  father's  chair,  gently  stroking 
back  the  fine  white  locks  which  waved  thickly  over  his 
handsome  brow. 

"Ah,  that  is  well,  for  I  had  intended,  Dora,  sending 
you  and  Annunziata  out  on  an  excursion  to-morrow,  to 
try  to  coax  back  some  of  the  pink  into  those  pale  cheeks 
of  yours.  You  must  go  out  of  the  city  and  its  noisy  bustle 
of  this  foolish  Carnival,  into  the  country;  to  those  fine 
Borghese  grounds,  or  for  a  stretch  on  the  Campagna.  You 
will  take  a  closed  caleche, — the  one  we  usually  employ  on 
the  Via  Condotti ;  the  man  is  trustworthy, — and  old  An- 
tonio will  keep  within  call  and  serve  my  dinner;  so  you 
must  make  a  long  day  of  it,  and  come  back  able  to  sing 
once  more  for  your  poor  old  cripple." 

"  Shall  I  sing  now,  papa?  I  feel  the  sweet  flower-scented 
air  of  to-morrow  blowing  over  me  already  !  What  shall  I 
sing  for  you?" 

He  looked  at  her  surprised ;  her  whole  appearance  was 
suddenly  changed, — she  drooped  no  longer  ;  her  face  wore 
a  rosy  flush  ;  her  great  amber-tinted  eyes  seemed  to  brim 
with  joy.  She  smiled  with  the  old  winning  brightness,  for 
she  felt  that  in  obeying  his  command  on  that  dread  mor- 
row, she  would  be  si)ared  half  the  liumiliation  (possible 
prevarication)  of  her  promised  complicity  in  deceit;  so 
sophistical  is  the  devil's  reasoning,  she  almost  felt  that 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  19 

her  father  sanctioned  her  action  by  this  fortunate  coinci- 
dence. 

She  sang  unweariedly  song  after  song,  and  her  father 
lay  back  contentedly  in  his  temporary  freedom  from  pain, 
inwardly  congratulating  himself  upon  having  discovered 
an  infallible  remedy  for  the  drooping  spirits  of  his  singing- 
bird.  She  had  been  too  long  caged  up  in  that  sick-room, 
and  needed  air  and  light ;  voila  tout ! 


CHAPTER   III. 

The  night  was  wet  and  wintry,  rain  mingled  with  sleet, 
and  the  icy  breath  of  January,  in  Rome,  struck  through 
the  toughest  top-coats,  into  the  marrow  of  the  bones  of 
those  unfortunates  who  happened  to  be  exposed  to  their 
disheartening  influences. 

"  Pile  more  wood  on  the  fire,  Antonio,  and  then  step 
around  to  the  post-office  ;  there  may  be  letters  from  my 
daughter  by  the  late  post."  And  Mr.  Fairfax  settled  him- 
self down  comfortably  in  his  luxurious  chair  and  drew 
towards  him  a  London  Times. 

A  marked  change  for  the  better  has  taken  place  in  the 
old  gentleman's  surroundings  since  we  last  looked  in 
upon  him  some  ten  months  ago  ;  a  change  which,  in  its 
beneficent  effect,  seemed  to  have  added  ten  years  to  his 
declining  life.  Whether  this  was  precisely  the  result 
anticipated,  or  desired,  by  Dyke  Faucett  when  he  drew 
the  father  of  his  bride  away  from  the  small,  dingy  apart- 
ment on  the  fourth  floor  of  the  Via  del  Babuino,  and 
inducted  him  into  the  comfortable  and  more  accessible 
suite  on  the  Via  Sistina,  au premier,  our  imagination  alone 


20         THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

can  divine.  But  Mr.  Fairfax  was  one  of  those  happily- 
constituted  mortals  who  accept  life  as  it  comes  to  them : 
make  no  loud  moan  in  adversity,  and  revel  in  the  smile 
of  that  fickle  wench,  Fortune,  with  a  range  of  vision  merci- 
fully limited  to  the  bridge  of  their  own  noses. 

Mr.  Fairfax,  in  his  cozy  rooms,  with  an  excellent  cook 
and  the  factotum  of  the  Babuino  quarters  (habited  in 
decent  guise,  and  with  a  new  strut  of  pomposity,  appropri- 
ate to  his  altered  circumstances,  though  somewhat  at  vari- 
ance with  his  honest,  child-like  expression  of  face)  to  wait 
upon  him  exclusively,  with  Dyke's  choice  books  to  linger 
over,  and  his  choice  cigars  and  fine  wines  put  entirely 
at  his  disposal,  Dora's  father  was  not  mad,  wicked,  or 
ungrateful  enough  to  repine,  or  to  allow  the  disagreeable 
thought  to  intrude  and  mar  the  harmony  of  the  ensemble 
(and  his  digestive  organs),  that  Dyke  had  not  yet  taken 
that  trip  to  England  to  break  the  news  of  his  marriage  to 
his  guardian,  who  still  remained  in  blissful  ignorance  of 
the  fatal  frustration  of  his  plans,  and  who  occasionally 
wrote  kindly  letters  to  Faucett,  which  were  duly  and 
affectionately  answered. 

When  Dora  had  returned  to  her  father's  side  on  the 
evening  of  her  wedding-day  (for  Dyke  had  carefully  ar- 
ranged the  programme,  and  after  the  nine  o'clock  morning 
service  in  the  English  chapel,  Dora  and  he  were  made 
man  and  wife,  with  all  the  solemnity  of  the  beautiful 
marriage-service,  by  a  bona  fide  parson,  and  in  the  pres- 
ence of  one  other  witness, — Annunziata,  Dora's  maid,  a 
brown-faced,  bright-eyed  Italian  girl,  who  worshiped  her 
mistress  next  to  the  Madonna)  ; — when  she  came  and  knelt 
at  his  side,  with  her  happiness  glowing  all  over  her,  and 
half  whispered,  "Papa,  Mr.  Faucett  and  I  were  married 
this  morning!"  without  elaboration  or  circumlocution, 
he  was  simply  stunned  at  a  coup  d' etat  which  had  scattered 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  21 

to  the  winds  his  plans  and  projects.  And  then,  for  one 
moment,  he  covered  his  eyes  with  his  shapely  hands,  and 
swiftly  there  spread  out  before  him  a  vision  of  his  youth. 
The  love  he  had  borne  for  a  woman  from  whom  parents 
wished  to  separate  him;  her  pleading  face,  his  high-handed 
venture,  and  then  afterwards,  the  long,  happy  married 
life  together, — one  continuous  courtship  until  the  very  end. 

"Dora,"  he  said,  looking  steadily  at  her  through  two 
tear-dimmed  eyes,  "are  you  sure  you  love  him?" 

"Oh,  papa!" 

"And  are  you  equally  sure  he  loves  you  ?'''' 

"Why  else  should  he  have  married  me,  dear  papa? 
Ah,  tell  me  you  have  forgiven  me  for  doing  as  I  have  done 
without  your  consent,  and  I  shall  be  perfectly  happy !" 
She  laid  her  cheek  on  his  hanSs  and  kissed  them. 

"God  bless  you,  my  own  ewe-lamb!  May  you  be  as 
happy  as  your  mother  was,  thank  God  !"  And  they  wept 
together,  not  unhappy  tears. 

The  following  day  they  were  transplanted  to  their  new 
quarters,  which  Dyke  informed  Mr.  Fairfax  he  had  leased 
for  three  years,  and  which  he  was  to  look  upon  as  his 
home,  as  well  as  his  daughter's  and  son-in-law's,  when 
they  would  be  in  Rome.  For  the  present,  the  happy  pair 
intended  running  up  to  Paris  to  choose  Dora's  very  simple 
trousseau  and  hear  the  new  opera.  ("It  was  really  too 
much  to  ask  of  a  man  to  leave  his  bride  and  rush  over 
alone  to  England;  that  can  be  postponed,  my  dear  sir, 
until  after  the  honey-moon  at  least,''  remonstrated  Dyke, 
in  reply  to  Mr.  Fairfax's  innocent  query,  "When  do  you 
start  for  England?") 

Money  is  the  axis  upon  which  the  world  turns,  therefore  it 
is  not  surprising  that,  having  lavishly  employed  that  power- 
ful agent  since  the  hour  in  which  he  left  his  betrothed 
dreaming  in  the  moonlight,  the  very  day  after  the  cere- 


22         THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

mony  all  things  were  magically  in  their  places,  and  the 
softest  and  easiest  of  conveyances  carried  Mr.  Fairfax  to 
his  handsome  rooms  in  the  new  apartment,  in  which  a 
French  cook,  Dora's  maid,  Faucett's  valet,  and  old  An- 
tonio metamorphosed,  were  already  in  their  respective 
stalls.  Mr.  Fairfax  could  not  conceal  his  delight ;  and  the 
fact  of  Dyke's  having  observed  his  preference  for  the  for- 
lorn-looking, hybrid  maid-  and  man-servant  of  his  four- 
years-old  home,  touched  him  deeply. 

That  same  night  Dyke  Faucett  and  his  bride  occupied 
a  coupe  of  a  railway  train  en  route  to  Civita  Vecchia, 
while  the  faithful  Giles  entertained,  in  a  second-class  car- 
riage and  in  broken  Italian,  Dora's  dark-eyed  little  maid, 
Annunziata. 

Dora  felt  that  she  had  never  seen  Paris  before,  after 
some  weeks  of  the  enchanting  diversion  which  that  city 
afforded  to  a  well-filled  purse  and  a  man  not  destitute  of 
savoir-faire.  It  was  one  long  fairy-tale  to  her,  and  her 
eloquent  letters  full  of  fetes,  tours  of  palaces  and  galleries, 
tlieatres  and  the  opera,  of  Dyke's  lavish  generosity  in  his 
costly  contributions  to  her  trousseau  and  jewel-case,  of  his 
devotion  to  her  in  all  ways,  patted  to  sleep  the  last  remain- 
ing scruple  in  the  mind  of  her  doting  father,  who,  in 
return,  wrote  cheering  letters  of  his  restored  health,  and 
of  his  hope  that  before  their  return  he  would  walk  as  well 
as  ever. 

He  walked  before  their  return  ! 

After  a  couple  of  months  of  Paris,  the  advanced  spring 
rendered  Italy  dangerous  and  Switzerland  desirable.  The 
old  gentleman  was  advised  to  go  to  the  lakes  in  the  north 
of  Italy,  where  his  considerate  son-in-law  had  already 
engaged  rooms  for  him,  paid  in  advance.  ("As  they  are 
included  in  my  suite,  you  understand  ;  for  Dora  and  I 
mean  to  join  you  later,"  wrote  Dyke,  to  soothe  any  ruffles 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


23 


on  the  pride  which  never  died  out  of  the  old  man's  blood.) 
But  he  occupied  the'  suite  in  lonely  grandeur,  and  if  he 
missed  his  singing-bird,  and  the  luxuries  of  life  seemed  at 
times  a  poor  exchange,  he  never  pained  her  by  such  a 
confession.  He  made  friends  everywhere,  and  led  a  sweet, 
tranquil  life,  grateful  to  God  for  the  comforts  of  which  he 
had  never  mourned  the  absence. 

Only  once  during  those  long  ten  months  had  he  seen 
Dora,  and  then  for  a  brief  week's  visit  after  his  return  to 
Rome,  in  September.  "  It  was  only  to  give  him  a  glimpse 
of  his  darling,"  Dyke  assured  her  fatlier ;  "for  they  were 
en  route  to  Naples,  and  would  return  to  Rome  for  the 
Christmas  festivities."  And  when  Mr.  Fairfax's  material 
organ  of  sight  had  fully  satisfied  itself  that  Dorothea's 
eyes  had  gained  in  lustre,  and  the  oval  of  her  cheek  was 
unimpaired,  that  the  willowy  figure  had  rounded  into  fuller 
curves,  and  her  voice  deepened  in  its  richest  notes,  he  was 
more  than  content,  thoroughly  assured  that  her  soul  was 
full-fed,  and  tliat  the  tendrils  of  her  heart,  clinging  to  a 
firm  support,  were  flowering  all  over  in  luxuriant  profusion. 

The  subject  of  the  still-postponed  trip  to  England  was 
not  mooted.  When  all  the  sky  was  serenely  blue,  with 
not  even  a  cloud  the  size  of  a  man's  hand  to  awaken 
doubt  or  dread,  why  should  he  raise  a  mimic  thunder,  or 
force  discordant  elements  to  agitate  the  moral  barometer 
which  was  set  so  fi.xedly  at — "fair''  ? 

And  Dora  had  certainly  not  a  corporeal  wish  ungrat- 
ified  ;  and  althougli  Dyke's  bank  account  had  not  been 
over-weighted  by  a  paul,  the  money  which  had  ever  flowed 
like  sand  through  his  careless  fingers  was  now  concentrated 
upon  one  object,  in  place  of  many,  the  one  only,  long- 
lasting  passion  of  his  life.  Fur  Dora  still  held  him  cap- 
tive, though  ten  moons  had  risen  and  waned  since  that  in 
wliich  he  had  left  her  in  her  slight,  girlish  beauty,  glowing 


24         THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

in  the  conscious  triumph  of  having  woven  the  last  link  of 
the  chain  which  bound  him  to  her  feet. 

A  closer  association  with  her,  so  far  from  bringing  to 
him  the  customary  desillusionnemejit,  only  served  to  un- 
fold to  his  view  charms  of  manner  and  graces  of  char- 
acter which  had  never  before  come  under  his  observation. 
The  beau-sexe  had  long  been  a  study  to  this  man,  but  it 
was  always  from  the  same  potter's-clay  they  were  formed, 
however  delicate  in  form  and  coloring  (and  frailty). 
Those  Sevres  bits  had  ornamented  his  table  to  perfec- 
tion, but  they  never  changed  in  form  or  tint  througli  all 
the  many  costly  courses  in  which  they  served,  and  after 
awhile  they  wearied  the  pampered  eye,  and  gave  place  to 
another  set  of  a  newer  pattern  and  a  rarer  shade,  but 
bearing  the  same  manufactory's  mark  under  the  exquisite 
enamel. 

But  here  was  a  woman,  guileless  as  a  child,  and  yet  pos- 
sessed of  that  innate  power  of  fascination  which  springs 
from  infinite  tact,  unerring  good  taste,  art-culture,  and  a 
sweet,  sunny  warmth  and  brightness  of  temper,  united  to 
a  purity  of  thouglit  and  dignity  of  character  which  enforced 
his  respect,  and  which,  through  almost  an  aesthetic  admira- 
tion, he  would  not  have  desired  sullied  any  more  than  he 
could  have  restrained  his  disgust  should  some  Vandal  mu- 
tilate the  Venus  of  the  Capitol  or  plunge  a  knife  through 
the  canvas  of  a  Titian.  And  the  secret  of  her  power  was 
this:  she  never  bored  him  for  one  moment,  and  yet, 
strange  to  say,  she  loved  him.  For  love,  being  blind,  is 
ofttimes  selfish,  and  in  the  insatiable  hunger  of  a  loving 
woman's  heart,  even  her  arms  may  weigh  heavily,  after  a 
time,  on  the  most  ardent  lover's  shoulders. 

Young  bride,  beware  !  the  first,  faintest  sigh  of  satiety 
is  the  first  tremulous  sound  of  the  death-knell  of  your 
power.      Before  the  orange-blossoms  crown    your  bright 


THE  MILLS   01'    THE    GODS.  25 

tresses,  chain  your  beloved  by  heavy-forged  b'nks  of  gold 
or  steel,  an  you  will ;  but  after  the  golden  circlet  clasps 
your  finger,  let  your  victim  breathe  freely  in  bonds  flower- 
woven  and  lightly  worn. 

Instinct  teaches  some  fine,  artistic  natures  many  things; 
vivid  perception  and  a  keen  psychological  eye  see  breakers 
ahead  before  the  dull,  half-closed  optic  of  a  coarser  nature, 
or  the  distorted  vision  of  a  more  sin-clouded  soul,  would 
see  aught  but  the  sun-glinted  waves  of  the  present  enjoy- 
ment. 

And  Dora  understood  the  art,  more  difficult  than  win- 
ning love,  of  keeping  it,  and  never  allowed,  through  her 
own  weakness  or  craving,  the  ineffable  charm  of  novelty, 
the  exhaustless  resources  of  her  versatile  mind,  the  ever- 
increasing  charm  of  her  rare  beauty  and  her  entrancing 
voice,  to  pall  upon  his  taste,  or  his  over-stimulated  nerves, 
or  his  blase  epicureanism.  Whether  this  near  communion 
with  her  idol  had  robbed  her  of  some  illusions  and  low- 
ered his  pedestal  to  the  level  of  humanity  in  general,  she 
had  not  confessed  to  her  own  heart,  for  she  loved  Dyke 
still  absorbingly,  and,  as  long  as  that  love  lasted,  she  ex- 
ercised over  him  the  spell  which  won  his  absolute  devo- 
tion. It  was  only  long  after,  when  her  respect  became 
undermined  and  the  whole  beautiful  fabric  of  trust  and 
belief  in  his  honor  tumbled  piecemeal  to  the  ground, 
that  she,  through  weakened  love,  relaxed  her  vigilance 
and  carefully-preserved  fascinations,  and  he  slipped  gradu- 
ally his  neck  from  beneath  the  yoke  which  had  only  just 
begun  to  weigh  even  lightly  upon  him. 

IJutwe  must  go  back  to  poor  old  Mr.  Fairfax,  whom  we 
have  left  so  long,  wading  through  that  stale  Times,  and 
who  has  now  been  repaid  for  his  perseverance  in  sending 
every  three  hours  to  the  post,  by  a  few  lines  in  Dyke's 
beautiful  calligraphy,  announcing  the  birtli  of  a  fine  lillle 
R  3 


26         THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

girl,  with  the  assurance  of  Dora's  welfare  at  that  writing, 
etc.,  etc. 

Mr.  Fairfax  put  down  the  letter  with  an  audible  sigh  of 
relief.  This,  then,  accounted  for  Dora's  long  silence  and 
the  neglect  of  Dyke's  promise  to  bring  her  to  Rome  for 
Christmas ;  he  had  not  suspected  such  a  denouement,  and  he 
was  delighted  with  its  plausibility  in  excusing  their  evident 
forgetfulness  of  himself. 

"  A  little  daughter  !  Dora  with  a  baby  !  Oh,  it  was  too 
ridiculous  !  She  never  had  held  an  infant  in  her  arms  in 
her  life ;  and  born  down  there  in  Naples,  with  not  an 
English-speaking  Christian  about  her ;  Annunziata  was 
faithful,  but  she  was  ignorant  and  inexperienced.  Ah, 
how  I  long  to  see  her, — my  little  Dora, — and — the  baby  ! 
Ha  !  ha  !  ridiculous  !  too  absurd  !"  And  he  rang  the  bell 
to  confide  the  joyous  intelligence  to  the  devoted  Antonio 
(who  had  known  Dora  as  a  slim  girl  of  fifteen,  and  would 
have  given  his  life  for  her  at  any  moment),  with  the  ad- 
ditional information  that  Mr.  Faucett  would  bring  his 
family  {^^Yi-x\  ha!")  to  Rome  before  Easter,  and  then 
Antonio  should  dandle  la  Signora's  baby  ! 


CHAPTER    IV. 


The  tender  crocus  had  peeped  forth,  followed  by  the 
shrinking  violet ;  the  orange-trees  had  blossomed  and 
scented  the  air  all  about  Rome  with  heavy  delicious  fra- 
grance. And  now — all  spring  was  spreading  full  bloom 
over  everything;  even  the  lazzaroni  forgot  the  stereotyped 
expression  of  woe  frozen  into  their  countenances  by  the 
cold  blasts  of  the  winter  through  those  dark,  narrow  streets, 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


27 


and  chatted  and  laughed  and  sung  in  the  revivifying 
sunshine. 

Dorothea  had  rejoiced  her  father's  eyes  during  the  last 
six  weeks,  and  had  witnessed,  without  an  apparent  pang, 
the  complete  transfer  of  that  pink,  dimpled,  golden-haired 
cherub  Marian  to  the  pedestal  which  she  herself  had  oc- 
cupied for  so  many  years,  before  which  her  father  had 
bowed  in  abject  idolatry. 

And  Antonio  !  Never,  save  on  canvas,  had  he  seen  any- 
thing so  fair  and  blue-eyed,  and  with  such  tender  rose- 
tints  about  it ;  it  was  comical  to  see  these  two  old  men 
gaze  at  and  discuss  gravely  together  the  entrancing  wiles 
and  absurd  grimaces  of  the  wonderful  baby.  Dora  too, 
while  she  laughed  at  them  both,  found  secret  store  of 
blissful  enjoyment  in  the  little  frail  life  unfolding  day  by 
day  under  her  loving  eyes. 

Dyke  was  in  England, — at  last  he  had  determined  to 
avoid  a  possible  fracas  with  his  guardian  by  paying  him  a 
visit  of  a  fortnight.  The  fortnight  had  lengthened  into 
two  months;  they  had  left  EUingham  and  gone  uj)  to 
town  ;  for  it  was  the  third  week  in  May,  and  Dyke  had 
not  enjoyed  the  "season"  for  some  years,  and  it  had 
novelty  enough  now  to  attract  him. 

His  letters  to  his  wife  were  not  frequent,  but  they  were 
affectionate  enough,  veiling  with  plausible  pretexts  his 
desire  to  remain  longer  than  he  had  at  first  intended. 

Not  one  word,  however,  did  they  contain  relative  to 
the  divulgement  of  his  secret  marriage,  and  Dora's  heart 
sank  like  lead  within  her.  She  could  not  fail  to  remem- 
ber how  guarded  Dyke  had  been  during  their  bridal  trip 
and  their  sojourn  in  Naples  to  prevent  the  fact  of  his 
marriage,  by  any  possibility,  being  reported  in  English 
circles, — how,  when  in  llicir  rambles  they  stumbled  upon 
parties  of  acquaintances.  Dyke  invariably  passed  hastily 


28         THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

witli  a  cold  bow,  or,  hustling  her  into  the  carriage,  bade 
the  coachman  drive  home,  whilst  he  turned  and  joined 
his  compatriots  with  smiles  and  hand-shakings. 

Through  all  these  twelve  months  and  more,  he  had 
never  introduced  a  single  person  to  his  sweet  young  wife, 
with  the  exception  of  a  itfi  men  who  were  unavoidably 
presented  just  before  they  sat  down  to  dinner,  and  whom 
she  never  saw  after  the  meal  had  ended  and  cards  and 
decanters  occupied  the  table ;  but  the  laughter  and  cigar- 
smoke  mingled  reached  her  in  her  little  sitting-room  be- 
yond, where  she  sang  to  herself,  or  sketched,  or  read  a 
little,  wondering  if  they  never  meant  to  go  and  let  Dyke 
come  to  her. 

And  then  towards  the  small  hours,  when  her  rcpciioire 
had  become  exhausted,  and  she  had  watered  her  flowers 
and  buried  her  face  in  their  fragrant  blossoms,  feeling 
that  in  them  she  found  some  strange,  sweet  sympathy, 
she  would  betake  herself  to  her  bedroom  with  its  windows 
looking  out  upon  the  beautiful  bay.  There  Dyke,  coming 
in  softly,  would  sometimes  find  her  enveloped  in  her 
flowing  white  peignoir,  with  her  luxuriant  hair  unbraided 
and  falling  about  her  like  a  cloud,  out  of  which  the  pure 
face  and  great  eyes  gleamed  with  almost  supernatural 
beauty.  A  gentle  reproach  from  Dyke  for  losing  her 
beauty-sleep,  a  loving  caress,  and  her  loneliness  was  for- 
gotten, her  sadness  dispelled.  The  next  morning  was 
sure  to  be  sunshiny,  and  they  would  drive  along  the 
shore  of  that  magical  bay;  or  often,  as  the  fancy  seized 
them,  would  take  their  places  in  a  barciolina,  belonging 
to  a  fisherman,  who  was  ready  to  throw  aside  his  net  at 
the  prospect  of  biiona  viano,  antl  lend  all  the  energies  in 
his  brawny  arms  to  the  swift  speeding  of  the  tiny  bark 
over  the  blue  waves.  And  then  Dyke,  lying  at  her  feet, 
would  tell  her  the  story  of  the  ^Micid,  while  she,  breathing 


THE  MILLS    OF   THE    GODS.  29 

in  the  golden  air  of  that  exquisite  climate  which  makes  it 
a  joy  to  live,  with  one  white  hand  idly  toying  with  the 
blue  waters  over  which  they  glided,  listened  with  unabated 
interest  to  the  musical  voice  which  had  not  lost  one  whit 
of  its  charm.  Then  they  would  draw  in  to  shore,  and 
would  stroll  into  the  cave  of  the  Cumsean  Sibyl  where 
^neas  consulted  the  oracle,  or  into  the  Temple  of  Apollo, 
where  Daedalus  retreated  after  his  flight  from  the  island  of 
Crete,  and  make  a  festive  day  of  it, — a  sort  of  improvised 
picnic,  tete-d'teie,  without  one  jarring  element  or  moment 
of  ennui  to  mar  their  entire  enjoyment.  Or  else  they 
would  drive  to  the  Castle  of  St.  Elmo,  winding  through 
the  heart  of  Naples,  and  spend  hours  of  delight  in  the  ole- 
ander-shaded arbor  on  the  edge  of  a  cliff,  overlooking  the 
myriad  gems  set  in  the  sea  stretching  beneath  them  ;  while 
Vesuvius  towered  high  above  groves  of  orange,  lemon,  and 
citron  trees,  myrtle-shaded  walks,  classic  ruins,  and  lovely 
villas,  half  buried  in  acacia-blossoms,  on  the  other  hand. 

And  sometimes  they  would  join  the  stream  of  gayly- 
dressed  idlers  on  the  promenade  which  leads  to  the 
Villa  Reale,  that  charming  chiaja,  which  is  certainly  one 
of  the  brightest  and  gayest  in  Europe.  But  this  was  very 
seldom,  for  it  was  a  rare  chance  at  that  season  that,  cos- 
mopolite as  he  was.  Dyke  should  not  meet  among  that 
gay  throng  one  or  more  acquaintances,  and  this  contre- 
temps he  avoided  religiously  when  Dora  was  with  him. 

And  Dora  was  not  sorry  :  she  cared  only  for  Dyke  ;  his 
society  was  her  world,  his  voice  a  complete  orchestra, 
filling  every  want  to  her  ears  ;  his  approval  of  her  appear- 
ance the  only  flattery  she  craved,  and  in  their  solitary 
ramblings  she  found  perfect  joy. 

During  those  early  days  of  her  married  life  the  thought 
never  intruded,  like  a  snake  in  her  paradise,  that  perhaps 
Dyke  was  just  a  little  selfish  now  and  then.     She  never 


3° 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


questioned  for  one  moment  liis  right  to  dispose  of  her  and 
of  himself  as  he  saw  proper  or  agreeable  to  himself,  and 
on  liiose  evenings  when  he  dined  out,  and  just  "looked 
in"  afterwards  at  the  San  Carlo,  for  an  act  or  two,  she  was 
undisturbed  by  doubt  or  foreboding,  thinking  it  all  very 
natural,  and  rather  pitying  her  husband,  who  looked  so 
bored  as  he  drew  on  his  light  gloves  and  kissed  her  good- 
night, begging  her  not  to  sit  up  for  him ;  he  would  get 
away  as  soon  as  he  decently  could,  however,  etc. 

And  sometimes  Avhen  he  had  taken  her  to  the  theatre 
and  she,  sitting  slightly  behind  the  curtain  according  to 
his  suggestion  ("For,  my  darling,  yours  is  too  lovely  a 
face  to  be  stared  at  by  these  brutes  of  Italians,"  he  assured 
her),  and  she  would  see  him  in  the  boxes  of  the  elegantly- 
dressed  women  and  disiingue-Xookmg  men,  evidently  Eng- 
lish, chatting  familiarly,  and  sometimes  with  an  empresse- 
incnt  too  marked  to  be  unobserved  by  one  keenly  interested 
and  with  an  excellent  lorgnette,  detained  {pour  causer  un 
pcii)  in  the  little  saloon  attached  to  each  box,  a  thought 
would  cross  her  mind  that  some  of  these  fair  dames  should 
have  done  her  the  honor  to  call  upon  her,  as  they  seemed 
such  old  friends  of  her  husband.  But  she  never  put  her 
thought  into  words,  and — they  never  called. 

And  then  came  into  her  cup  of  joy  another  drop  and 
caused  it  to  overflow  ;  she  cared  no  longer  for  the  San  Carlo 
or  the  promenade;  she  troubled  herself  with  no  further 
questionings  of  the  why  or  wherefore  of  the  world  about 
her;  she  never  felt  lonely  or  sad  when  Dyke  did  not  re- 
turn as  early  as  he  promised,  for  she  carried  in  her  heart 
a  blessed  hope,  the  sweetest  of  all  a  pure  woman's  entire 
life, — the  budding  promise  of  a  first  maternity. 

She  kept  her  secret  jealously  to  herself,  gloating  over  it 
as  a  miser  over  his  gold,  building  dream-castles  on  its  frail 
foundations,  singing  of  it  in  gushing,  caroling  notes  of 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


31 


very  happiness  ;  and  Dyke  saw  her  whole  expression  of 
face  change  from  that  of  gleeful  girlhood  to  the  sweet 
serenity  of  dawning  matronhood,  intensifying  the  eloquent 
eyes  in  an  extraordinary  degree,  and  wondered  at  her 
ever-increasing  charm. 

But  1  fear  when,  with  blushes  and  tears  and  stammer- 
ings, the  great  news  was  broken  to  him,  his  delight  was 
not  entirely  unfeigned,  and  if  his  candid  opinion  could 
have  been  educed,  it  would  have  been  something  after 
this  fashion,  "A  deuced  bore  !  Hang  it  all  !  What's  the 
use  of  it  ?"  etc.,  and  straightway  forget  all  about  it  until  the 
next  mention.  But  Dora  dreamed  naught  of  this  ;  if  she 
was  a  little  chilled  by  the  calmness  with  which  he  received 
her  communication,  she  consoled  herself  with  the  reflection 
that  he  was  only  a  man,  and  could  not  be  expected  to  soar 
heavenward  on  the  wings  of  such  bliss  as  hers ;  could  not 
understand  or  appreciate  it,  in  fact ;  but  Annunziata  could, 
and  did,  for  she  wept  genuine  tears  of  joy  over  her  young 
mistress,  and  was  so  enthusiastic  after  her  tears  subsided, 
that  Dora  became  quite  impatient  for  the  grand  finale; 
and  they  talked  and  plotted  and  arranged  the  programme 
of  everything,  after  the  manner  of  women,  quite  unne- 
cessarily prematurely,  and  then  cried  a  little  more,  and 
ended  up  in  a  cheerful  and  patient  frame  of  mind,  both 
looking  a  little  more  consequential  than  usual,  and  stealing 
eloquent  glances  at  each  other  full  of  a  mute  sympathy. 

I  think  the  happiest  hours  of  Dora's  whole  life  were 
those  spent  in  sunny  Naples,  and  yet  the  time  came  when 
she  could  not  look  back  upon  those  days  without  a  spasm 
of  pity  for  her  own  helpless  blindness,  so  treacherously 
betrayed. 

And  Naples  was  marked  in  her  memory  by  the  loss  of 
her  faithful  Annunziata,  to  whom  she  had  become  much 
attached. 


32         THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

Two  months  after  little  Marian's  birth  the  poor  girl 
had  been  seized  by  fever,  and  in  spite  of  the  most  careful 
attendance  and  the  best  medical  advice  she  became  de- 
liriousj  and  did  not  recover  consciousness  until  the  end. 
Dora  was  deeply  grieved,  and,  as  soon  as  a  suitable  nurse 
could  be  provided  in  her  place  for  the  infant,  they  left 
Naples  and  the  flowery  grave  which  had  saddened  every 
thing  for  her,  and  returned  to  Rome,  Dyke  leaving  almost 
immediately  for  England. 


CHAPTER  V. 


"Yes,  Dyke,  I  will  go  to  this  ball  if  you  desire  it  so 
much."  And  Dora,  standing  at  the  window  gazing  out 
upon  a  street  with  its  shifting  panorama  with  unseeing 
eyes,  sighed  a  little  tremulous  sigh,  which  expressed  the 
struggle  it  had  cost  her  to  accede  to  Dyke's  request,  and 
attend  a  great  ball  which  was  to  be  given  for  charitable 
purposes,  patronized  by  the  elite  of  the  English  residents 
in  Rome. 

"  You  need  not  sigh  so  profoundly  over  the  prospect, 
Dora,  my  dear,"  yawned  her  husband  from  the  depths  of 
his  easy-chair.  "  Most  handsome  women  would  be  en- 
chanted at  this  opportunity  of  exhibiting  themselves; 
there  are  any  number  of  foreign  potentates  to  add  lustre 
to  the " 

"Oh,  Dyke,"  interrupted  Dora,  reproachfully,  "you 
are  only  discouraging  me.  I  have  never  attended  a  ball, 
a  real  ball,  you  know,  in  my  life,  and,"  she  concluded, 
dreamily,  "I  scarcely  think  I  am  fitted  to  shine  in  festiv- 
ities on  such  a  grand  scale  ;  they  do  not  attract  me." 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  33 

"Ah,  my  dear,  you  do  not  know  yet;  taste  tlie  cup 
before  you  abjure  it.  You  are  dwindling  and  pining  for  a 
little  excitement,  and  as  for  me,  well,  I  am  sick  of  Rome 
and — everything."  He  yawned  again,  shook  himself, 
and,  without  a  word  of  adieu,  started  off  for  his  club. 

Dora  looked  after  him  with  tears  in  her  sad  eyes;  but 
there  was  an  unwonted  flush  upon  her  cheek  as  she  turned 
hastily  and  pulled  the  bell.     Giles  appeared  immediately. 

"  Tell  Clementine  to  prepare  Miss  Marian  to  drive  with 
me,  and  order  the  coupe  at  once,  if  you  please,"  she 
commanded. 

The  color  had  not  faded  out  of  her  sweet  face,  when, 
half  an  hour  later,  she  stood  discussing  with  feverish  ani- 
mation the  rival  merits  of  satin,  silk  and  velvet  with 
Madame  Massoni,  the  most  fashionable  and  expensive 
coiituriere  in  Rome.  Madame  was  in  raptures;  with  such 
a  face  and  such  a  form  she  would  accomplish  a  chef- 
d'' xuvre  which  would  outdo  her  rival,  IMadame  Borsini 
Dupres,  and  quench  her  for  evermore.  And  when  Dora, 
becoming  weary,  and  dazzled  and  confused  by  the  masses 
of  color  exposed  for  her  selection  and  the  volubility  of 
the  artiste  (who  was  taking  in  every  detail  of  her  visitor's 
beauty,  dress,  and  appurtenances ;  for  Marian,  a  three- 
year-old  mass  of  embroidery  and  lace,  cushioned  on 
Ernestine's  Parisian -clothed  la])  in  the  neatly-appointed 
coupe  at  the  door,  had  not  escajjed  her  observation),  had 
at  la.st  exclaimed,  in  despair,  "I  cannot  decide;  I  leave 
everything  to  you.  Spare  no  expense  ;  but  make  me  beau- 
tiful;  do  you  understand? — beautiful!" 

"Ah,  madame,  nature  has  spared  me  that  trouble  ;  but 
trust  me,  we  shall  find  a  fit  setting  for  such  a  face  as 
yours  even  ;  I  understand  perfectly.  And  it  is  for  the 
ball  at  the  Opera  on  Wednesday  evening?  Give  yourself 
no  uneasiness,  Madame  shall  be  satisfied." 


34 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


And  Dora  departed,  while  a  small  devil  invaded  the 
tranquil  depths  of  her  nature,  stirring  up  rebellion  at  last, 
and  whispering,  "We  shall  see  whether  love  is  dead  in 
his  heart ;  if  there  is  one  spot  left  which  can  feel  pain,  it 
shall  be  pricked  into  suffering  as  surely  as  I  live." 

Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  the  years  have  borne  fruit  of 
thistles,  which  was  far  from  the  toothsome  fig;  and  in 
the  inevitable  estrangement  which  had  grown  up  between 
Dora  and  her  husband  there  was  bitterness  as  well  as  dis- 
appointment. 

After  Dyke's  return  from  England,  more  than  two  years 
ago,  he  had  volunteered  no  explanation  of  his  extended 
visit,  no  mention  of  his  determined  continued  reserve 
towards  his  guardian  on  the  subject  of  his  marriage. 
Dora  had  pondered  long  and  wonderingly  on  this  strange, 
to  her  unaccountable,  deception,  and  at  last  had  timidly 
broached  the  subject  to  him. 

She  was  answered  by  a  cool  nonchalant  query,  "Are 
you  not  content,  Dora?  Is  there  anything  more  I  can  do 
to  contribute  to  your  happiness  or  your  father's  comfort? 
If  so,  only  mention  it  to  me,  and  consider  it  accomplished ; 
but  do  not  fret  yourself  or  annoy  me  by  any  heroics  on 
the  subject  of  my  guardian's  blessing  upon  our  nuptials. 
I  fancy  we  can  get  on  without  it,  my  dear."  And  then  he 
kissed  her  and  lounged  away,  and  she  knew  a  seal  had  been 
placed  upon  her  li])s  which  it  would  not  be  wise  to  break. 

But  from  that  hour  her  faith  in  her  husband's  nobility 
of  character  wavered  ;  her  respect  for  his  truth  and  honor 
was  shaken  ;  she  never  loved  him  quite  so  idolatrously 
afterwards.  But  still  she  loved  him,  and  still  her  fasci- 
nation was  paramount  with  him,  although  not  all-absorb- 
ing as  at  first. 

There  were  days  passed  in  jjlcasures  of  which  she  knew 
nothing,  save  the  one  grim  fact  that  they  took  Dyke  away 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  35 

from  her  side ;  there  were  dinners  and  balls  and  card- 
parties,  to  all  of  which  he  went  reluctantly,  but  inevitably; 
and  there  were  visits  to  England  each  spring  and  autumn, 
in  which  she  did  not  participate,  and  there  were  occasional 
trips  to  Paris,  and  in  the  summer  to  the  Lakes,  in  which 
she  did.  And  now  the  smooth  run  of  pleasure  was  begin- 
ning again  to  pall  upon  Dyke  Faucett.  The  novelty  of  a 
wife  had  worn  off  at  the  edges  ;  the  flirtations  interspersed 
through  these  last  three  years  were  becoming  tame,  and  he 
felt  that  he  must  stretch  out  in  a  new  series  of  experiences 
or  he  would  perish. 

'•  With  pleasure  drugged,  he  ahnost  longed  for  woe  ; 

And  e'en  for  change  of  scene  would  seek  the  shades  below !" 

But  in  vain  he  strove  to  shake  off  the  last  remaining 
influence  which  Dora  possessed  over  him.  Other  women, 
when  he  had  grown  weary  of  them,  he  had  been  able 
to  dispose  of  very  quietly ;  some  with  a  few  low-spoken 
decisive  words, — many  more  by  heavy  drafts  upon  his 
bankers;  but  Dora's  great  luminous  eyes  turned  full  upon 
him  always  checked  those  quiet  words  before  they  were 
formed  into  syllables.  And  this  was  the  last  vestige  of 
her  power  over  him  ;  he  dared  not  wound  her  !  And  this 
fact  irritated  him  beyond  endurance.  Caligula,  when  he 
clutched  his  wife  Milonia  Csesonia  by  the  throat,  shriek- 
ing at  her,  "  Tell  me,  thou  fascinating  devil,  what  poisons 
thou  hast  put  in  my  wine,  thus  to  bind  me  against  my 
will  ?  Make  confession  !  or  the  torture  shall  wring  it  from 
thee  !"  no  doubt  expressed  from  the  black  depths  of  his 
cruel  heart  the  same  passion  which  Dyke  Faucett, 
under  the  controlling  influences  of  the  social  amenities, 
whispered  only  to  his  own  soul. 

But  who  has  forgotten  that  wlien  this  Roman  monster 
was  assassinated,  this  wretched  wife  implored  the  conspira- 


36         THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

tors  to  slay  her  also,  "which,  in  pity  for  her  wild  grief, 
they  did"  ?  And  can  we  wonder  that  Dora  still  clings  to 
the  first  love  of  her  life,  though  trust,  respect,  hope,  and 
faith  are  dying  all  about  his  image? 

In  the  sort  of  moral  syncope  which  had  become  Dyke's 
normal  condition,  he  dreamed  not  of  the  warring  of  love 
and  pride  and  despair  in  the  heart  of  the  woman  he 
had  sworn  to  cherish  until  his  life's  end.  And  after  he 
had  grown  used  to  her  beauty,  grown  weary  of  her  repug- 
nance to  certain  choice  entertainments,  in  which  his  male 
friends  participated  and  from  which  his  lady  friends  were 
rigorously  excluded,  he  resented  a  purity  of  heart  and  tone 
which  was  a  constant  mute  reproach  to  him  ;  and  finding 
his  efforts  to  draw  her  down  to  his  level  unavailing,  he 
grew  to  feel  her  a  shackle  upon  his  freedom,  morally;  and 
the  feeling  chafed  liim  more  and  more  as  he  saw  her  eyes 
grow  sadder  and  the  color  in  her  cheek  vary  with  every 
emotion  through  the  delicate  transparency  of  her  skin. 
He  sought  a  new  device  to  arouse  her:  she  should  know 
what  it  was  to  be  admired,  courted,  flattered  ;  perhaps  she 
would  not  prove  insensible  to  the  incense  which  intoxi- 
cated all  women,  and  her  old  charm  would  return  with  a 
knowledge  of  her  power. 

He  would  try  it;  anything  is  better  than  this  stagna- 
tion ;  and  he  should  like  to  compare  her,  in  a  ball-room, 
to  others, — to  the  beautiful  Marquise  de  Courboisie  (the 
"  Pauline"  of  his  Spanish  tour,  who,  with  her  aged  spouse, 
was  spending  the  winter  in  the  Eternal  City,  and  finding 
therein  imlimited  delight  in  the  devotion  of  \\<tx  preux 
chevalier  of  other  days).  But  to  his  amazement  Dora 
had  declined,  gently  but  firmly,  "exhibiting  herself,"  as 
he  had  expressed  it ;  and  it  was  only  after  the  very  worst 
little  quarter  of  an  hour  of  their  marital  experience  that 
she  had  yielded  reluctant  consent. 


THE   MILLS  OF   TILE    GODS.  37 

And  then,  all  at  once,  an  inspiration  possessed  her:  she 
was  to  be  exhibited,  compared  with  others,  perhaps  ex- 
posed to  ridicule  or  censorious  comments  on  her  lack  of 
style,  her  provincial  manner,  her  timid  shyness.  Ah, 
well,  she  would  soon  settle  all  that.  Dyke  should  not  be 
ashamed  of  her  ;  and  perhaps — well,  perliaps  she  would 
j'ltsi  stir  vp  a  little  the  embers  of  that  dead  love  in  his 
heart. 

Hence  her  order  to  INIadame  Massoni,  and  her  inspec- 
tion of  her  jewel-case  later,  and  the  wild  glee  in  her 
voice  as  she  burst  out  into  song,  for  the  first  time  for 
months,  that  evening,  and  delighted  her  father's  heart. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

"  Can  this  be  Cytherea,  born  of  the  sea-foam, — or 
Aphrodite  herself,  just  risen  from  the  waves?"  asked  the 
young  Earl  Elphinstone  of  an  officer  in  Her  Majesty's 
Rifles,  as  Dora  swept  into  the  ball-room  on  her  husband's 
arm,  looking  a  very  sea-nym^jh  in  her  pale-green  robes, 
lace-shrouded,  and  her  crown  of  sea-shells  composed  of 
many-tinted  pearls,  from  the  dark-gray  to  the  delicate 
rose,  of  priceless  value.  This  crown  was  her  sole  orna- 
ment ;  but  the  snowy  shoulders  and  small,  rounded  arms 
needed  none  to  enhance  their  loveliness.  Her  bronze 
hair  rippled  above  the  pure  child-like  brow,  her  glorious 
eyes  were  brilliant  with  a  new  triumpli,  her  cheeks  were 
delicately  flushed,  and  she  entered  the  ball-room  amid  an 
audible  buzz  of  admiration,  with  the  proud  composure  of 
a  queen.  Dyke  felt  gratified  in  spite  of  himself,  and  a 
little   nervous;    he   must   get   himself  away   from  her  as 

4 


38  THE   MILLS    OF   TILE    GODS. 

quickly  as  possible :  people  would  be  pressing  for  intro- 
ductions. Even  as  the  thought  crossed  him,  the  Prince 
di  R approached,  and  entreated  the  honor  of  a  pre- 
sentation. As  soon  as  Dyke  had  performed  the  ceremony 
he  vanished,  leaving  his  wife  chatting  with  the  most  dis- 
solute man  in  Roman  society.  After  a  few  inane  plati- 
tudes, he  branched  off  into  nauseating  compliments,  fixing 
poor  Dora  with  his  piercing  black  eyes,  and  noting  her  em- 
barrassment with  delight.  As  he  became  more  and  more 
obnoxious,  Dora  looked  out  over  the  sea  of  human  beings, 
like  a  cornered  fawn,  fascinated  under  the  glaring  eyeballs 
of  a  tiger  ready  to  spring,  hoping  to  see  Dyke's  tall  form 
among  them;  but  Dyke  had  gone  into  the  refreshment- 
rooms  with  la  belle  Marquise,  and  she  was  not  thinking 
of  relinquishing  her  prey  for  many  an  hour  to  come. 
Dora,  in  despair,  attempted  to  freeze  the  little  reprobate 
with  a  sudden  accession  of  hauteur;  she  looked  over  his 
head  in  icy  indifference, — and  he  drew  nearer  to  her. 
She  replied  in  curtest  style  to  his  florid  flattery, — his 
breath  almost  fanned  her  cheek.  She  drew  herself  away 
and  desired  him  to  do  her  the  favor  of  looking  for  Mr. 
Faucett.  He  declined  courteously  but  positively, — "  it 
was  impossible,  in  such  a  crowd,  to  move,  far  less  possible 
to  find  any  one;  would  not  Madame  waltz?  she  must 
waltz  divinely."  Dora  was  on  the  point  of  bursting  into 
an  hysterical  fit  of  tears  when — oh,  thank  Heaven  !  an 
English  voice — a  voice  she  knew — spoke  just  behind  her. 
"  Miss  Fairfax  !"  called  out  glad  tones ;  and,  as  she  turned, 
her  hand  was  seized  tightly  and  the  handsome,  frank  face 
of  Reginald  Trelawney — one  of  the  few  friends  of  her 
childhood — smiled  into  hers  a  joyful  recognition. 

"Ah,"  cried  Dora,  "  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  again  !" 
(She  was.)  And  as  he  slipped  the  hand  he  still  held 
through  his  arm  and  moved  away  with   her,  I   fear  her 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  39 

ignorance  of  good  manners  deprived  the  indignant  prince 
of  even  the  slightest  bow  of  farewell.  "And  how  you 
have  changed  ;  and  yet  I  should  ha\-c  known  you  any- 
where, in  spite  of  that  luxuriant  moustache  and  those 
fierce  whiskers  !"  And  she  laughed  merrily — the  Dora  of 
old — once  again. 

"  Surely  you  are  not  beginning  already  to  chaff  me,  are 
you?"  asked  he,  with  a  lingering  look  in  her  beautiful 
face.  "  You  had  no  mercy  upon  me  in  those  other  days; 
but  may  I  not  hope  that  I  have  outgrown  now  the  age  at 
which  a  man  is  fair  game  to  a  woman  ?" 

"Who  outfjrows  that  age?  Methuselah  himself  would 
find  a  Delilah  to  turn  his  old  head  were  he  here  to-night. 
Look  at  that  couple  in  the  cotillion  to  the  right  !" 

He  laughed.  It  was  a  picture  of  Spring  and  Winter, — 
a  young,  pretty  girl  bestowing  all  manner  of  blandishments 
upon  a  white-haired,  decrepit  old  man,  wliose  breast  was 
covered  outwardly  with  decorations  and  inwardly  with 
the  mildew  of  age. 

"This  is  my  first  ball,  Mr.  Trelawney,  and,  do  you 
know,  I  quite  long  to  dance.  This  delicious  music  almost 
bears  me  off  on  its  wings;  but  I  have  not  been  asked  to 
dance,  and  I  do  not  know  any  one,"  she  laughed. 

"Excepting  the  Prince  di  R ,  who  was  devouring 

you  when  I  rescued  you,  and  myself.  Will  you  dance 
with  me?"  Almost  the  same  pleading  voice  and  bashful 
manner  with  which  he  had  implored  her  years  before, 
when  he  was  a  mere  boy,  to  accept  his  life's  devotion. 

Dora  hesitated.  She  had  never  danced,  save  in  those 
petit  reunions  of  artists  and  their  families,  before  she  had 
met  Dyke  Faucctt,  and — well,  that  valse  was  really  too 
much  for  her  remaining  scruples.  She  laid  her  hand  on 
Reginald's  shoulder,  and  in  a  moment  they  were  whirling 
away  in  the  delirious  delight  of  perfect  music,  perfect  time, 


40         THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 

and  perfect  step.  Trelawney  suited  her,  in  height,  in 
movement,  and  in  accuracy  of  ear,  and  that  first  real 
waltz  marked  an  epoch  in  Dora's  life.  What  Reginald's 
feelings  were,  one  can  imagine  ;  he  had  never  been  so  per- 
fectly, unutterably  happy  in  his  life.  The  desire  of  his 
soul  through  those  long,  dreary  years  in  India  had  at  last 
been  gratified :  he  had  seen  Dora  once  more,  and  she  had 
been  "so  glad  to  see  him!"  What  more  could  earth 
grant  of  bliss? 

After  they  had  danced,  rested,  danced  again,  until  they 
could  no  more,  they  sauntered  out  into  the  cool  lobbies, 
where  camellia-trees  and  myrtle  formed  shady  nooks,  in 
which  ices  were  served  to  refresh  the  dancers. 

"  How  have  you  come  to  Rome, — are  you  on  leave  of 
absence  ?"  asked  Dora,  sipping  daintily  her  ice,  and  look- 
ing more  exquisite  than  ever  under  the  green  drooping 
branches  of  an  acacia  in  full  flower.  Reginald  could 
scarcely  tear  his  eyes  from  her  face. 

"Yes;  I  am  on  leave.  The  fact  is  I  grew  tired  of  In- 
dian service,  and  longed  to  get  back  to  England  for  a 
while ;  so  I  exchanged  into  the  Rifle  Brigade,  and  here 
I  am!" 

"But  this  is  not  England,"  quoth  Dora,  maliciously. 
"Ah,  you  wanted  to  idle  about,  travel,  and  see  the 
world, — to  ^do'  Paris,  and  Rome,  and  Vesuvius!" 

"  No  ;  I  came  straight  from  Soutliamj)ton  to  Marseilles, 
thence  here.  Rome  is  the  whole  world  to  me."  His 
earnest  eyes  gazed  straight  into  hers  ;  she  colored  slightly. 

"Ah,  do  not  say  that  if  you  have  not  seen  Switzerland 
or  Naples,  or " 

"And  what  can  Switzerland  or  Naples,  or  any  other 
spot  under  heaven,  bring  me  of  happiness  more  than  I 
find  in  Rome  to-night?"  he  interrupted,  with  the  old  im- 
petuosity.    But  Dora  would  wot  see. 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS.  41 

"You  remind  me,"  she  laughed,  "in  your  contempt 
for  the  beauties  of  Nature,  of  Lord  Byron's  disgust  at 
passing,  on  his  way  to  the  Castle  of  Chillon,  a  traveling- 
carriage  in  which  lay  a  lady  asleep.  '  Fast  asleep  in  the 
most  anti-narcotic  spot  in  the  world  —  excellent!'  he 
exclaimed,  satirically,  Mr.  Trelawney.  Now  can  you 
tell  me  that  Mont  Blanc  or  the  Jungfrau  could  not 
arouse  your  enthusiasm?" 

"  I  never  tried  them,"  he  replied,  smiling;  "and  indeed 
I  do  not  mean  to  leave  Rome, — at  least  during  your  stay, 
Miss  Fairfax." 

And  then  Dora  felt  constrained  to  deal  her  blow.  "I 
reside  in  Rome,  Mr.  Trelawney  :  it  is  my  home  ;  and,  I  am 
not  Miss  Fairfax  now."  She  did  not  look  at  him,  but 
she  felt  the  white,  shocked  pain  in  his  face. 

''Not  Miss  Fairfax?"  he  stammered.  "Who,  then? 
Oh,  surely " 

"My  name  is  Mrs.  Faucett,"  interposed  Dora,  with 
gentle  dignity. 

He  did  not  speak  again.  This  was  bitter, — hard  and 
bitter,  and  utterly  unbearable.  Never  had  man  more 
thoroughly,  more  egregiously,  deceived  himself;  never 
had  man  been  stunned  by  so  sudden  and  sharp  a  blow  ! 
For  weeks  he  had  haunted  every  street,  every  church, 
every  gallery  in  Rome ;  run  over  every  visitors'  book  at 
each  hotel,  spent  hours  watching  every  face  that  passed 
on  the  favorite  promenades ;  worn  out  the  rims  of  his 
lorgnette  at  every  theatre  _and  opera,  looking  for  this 
girl,  who  at  last  burst  upon  his  vision  doubly  beautiful ; 
and  in  her  shy,  sweet,  graceful  manner  (in  which  nothing 
of  the  matron  could  be  detected),  had  filled  his  mind 
with  hope  and  his  heart  with  overpowering  happiness. 

Reader,  do  you  not  know  women,  of  mature  \ears  even, 
who  have  borne  many  children  perhaps,  in  happy  wed- 

4* 


42 


THE  MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 


lock,  who  still  glide  through  the  world,  mutely  denying 
the  marriage  estate  by  a  certain  girlishness  of  figure,  shy- 
ness of  mien,  wistfuhiess  of  expression  in  the  eyes,  which 
are  timid  and  modest  as  the  eyes  of  Una  herself;  just  as 
you  have  seen  in  little  girls  of  ten,  sometimes,  the  square, 
set  figures,  the  steady  eye  and  resolute  lip  of  the  embryo 
Cornelia ;  and  after  the  mystic  ring  is  slipped  over  the 
plump  third  finger,  it  seems  as  if  it  had  grown  there  for- 
ever ;  and  the  rest  of  her  spreads  out  all  over  everything 
in  a  motherly  embonpoint,  which  reminds  one  of  nothing 
so  much  as  an  overgrown  cabbage  or  cauliflower? 

Alas!  there  was  nothing  of  the  vegetable  about  Dora; 
the  wild  rose  blooms  on  her  cheek,  and  her  slender  figure 
suggests  the  lily ;  and  the  violet  itself  is  not  more  shrink- 
ing from  the  careless  gaze  than  she,  or  more  suggestive 
of  ungathered  sweetnesses. 

"Its  loveliness  increases;  it  will  never 
Pass  into  nothingness." 

Dyke  Faucett's  voice  broke  in  opportunely,  and  put  an 
end  to  a  silence  which  was  becoming  embarrassing  to 
Dora ;  and  Trelawney  was  obliged  to  shake  himself  to- 
gether, and  shake  hands  with  this  man  (whom  he  longed 
to  take  by  the  throat,  then  and  there),  and  after  a  few 
more  words,  to  see  him  walk  off  with  Dora  on  his  arm  to 
the  cloak-room  ;  not,  however,  before  Dyke  had  handed 
Trelawney  his  card  with  his  address  upon  it,  and  begged 
him  to  look  in  ujjon  them  often. 

Dora  did  not  echo  this  invitation  by  word,  or  look,  or 
wish.  She  bent  her  head  gravely  and  turned  away,  lean- 
ing with  empressemcnt  on  her  husband's  arm. 

"  Were  you  much  bored  ?"  inquired  Dyke,  during  their 
homeward  drive,  "and  did  that  cad  di  R make  him- 
self disagreeable?" 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


43 


"  I  was  not  bored,  and  that  cad  di  R did  make  him- 
self disagreeable,"  replied  his  wife,  concisely,  and  a  little 
resentfully.  If  the  man  was  known  to  be  a  puppy,  why 
did  her  husband  present  him  to  her  and  leave  her  at  his 
mercy?  Dora  flashed  out  (inwardly)  at  this,  and  at  his 
continued  neglect  throughout  the  evening. 

"  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  you  occasionally,  waltzing  ;  do 
you  like  it?" 

"Yes,"  slightly  mollified  (he  had  watched  her,  then). 
"  I  do  like  it  with  a  partner  like  Mr.  Trelawney ;  he  dances 
exquisitely,  and  oh,  the  music  was  divine!"  And  she 
hummed  a  bar  or  two  of  the  last  valse,  smiling  to  herself. 

"I  thought  you  did,  with  Mr.  Trclaivney.  He  seemed 
to  like  it  pretty  well  too." 

"Ah,  yes,  he  did,"  Dora  answered,  rather  sadly. 
"  Dyke,  I  wish  you  had  not  asked  that  boy  to  call."  Her 
voice  was  tremulous  and  hesitating  now. 

"  Boy !  you  are  ridiculous,  Dora.  Trelawney  is  no 
longer  a  sentimental  boy,  but  a  man  who  has  outlived  all 
that  absurd  nonsense.  Wliy,  you  don't  fancy  that  he  is 
spoony  about  you  now,  Dora?  Really,  I  thought  you 
knew  men  better  than  all  that." 

"I  do  not  know  much  about  men,  you  know,  Dyke. 
My  father  and  yourself  are  almost  the  only  ones  I  know 
intimately  and  perhaps  you  are  right,  I  should  have  known 
love  could  never  sj^rvive  so  many  years.  ^^  There  was  an  in- 
describable pathos  in  her  voice,  and  Dyke — changed  the 
subject. 

"  Have  you  retracted  your  opinion  on  the  subject  of 
balls  ?   Are  they  not  all  that  I  painted  them  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  do  not  know.  I  shall  never  go  to  another  one," 
Dora  answered,  wearily,  and  then  closed  her  eyes  until 
the  carriage  stoi)ped  and  Dyke  handed  her  out,  and  then, 
re-entering  it,  drove  to  the  club  for  a  half-hour  or  so. 


44 


THE  MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 


Dora  locked  her  door  after  her  maid  left  her,  and,  sink- 
ing into  a  great  easy-chair  drawn  up  before  the  open  wood- 
fire,  pondered  on  many  things.  And  out  of  the  chaos  of 
disturbed  thought  stood  forth  in  startling  distinctness, 
Dyke  Faucett's  selfishness  and  Reginald  Trelawney's  un- 
abated devotion  ;  two  figures  who  were  destined  to  war 
with  each  other  in  her  tender  heart  for  longer  than  that 
night. 

Before  she  slept,  she  prayed  for  strength  to  bear  the  pain 
which  each  day  now  brought  to  her,  in  the  conviction  that 
her  husband  had  wearied  of  her,  or  been  lured  from  her  by 
distractions  outside  his  home.  And  then  she  slept  and 
dreamed  that  she  was  back  in  the  Via  Babuino  again, 
copying  pictures  and  singing  in  the  church-choirs  for  a 
support,  with  a  heart  as  light  as  her  purse,  and  the  bright 
smile  of  her  girlhood  rested  once  more  on  her  lips.  The 
dream-angel  is  the  most  merciful  and  the  dearest  of  all 
the  white-winged  choir. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

**  But  you  could  make  so  much  of  your  life  if  you  chose. 
Why  not  give  up  the  army, — it  is  only  '  playing  soldier'  in 
these  peaceful  days, — and  take  up  a  new  career  ?  Surely 
there  are  many  oj)en  to  you  where  you  might  win  a  name, 
and  never- failing  incentive  to  draw  forth  your  powers." 

They  were  sauntering  along  one  of  the  terraces  sur- 
rounding Monte  Pincio,  Dora  with  Reginald  Trelawney 
— her  constant  companion  now, — followed  by  Clementine 
and  little  Marian  with  grandpapa  in  an  open  carriage. 

All  over  the  bcnutiful  j'incian  Hill  swarmed  equipages, 
from  the  cardinal's  coach  to  the  small,  hired  voiture  de 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS.  45 

place;  equestrians  on  thoroughbred  steeds,  nurses  with 
their  laughing  charges,  men  and  women  pedestrians  in  holi- 
day garb,  thronging  the  garden  on  the  summit,  among  its 
glittering  fountains,  its  gleaming  statues,  and  charming 
walks  flower-bordered. 

Ah,  what  a  view  of  the  "City  of  the  Soul"  stretched 
out  from  beneath  that  point !  Queenly  still  in  her  aged 
desolation  !     Rome  ! 

"  She  who  was  named  Eternal,  and  arrayed 
Her  warriors  but  to  conquer  ;  she  who  veiled 
Earth  with  her  haughty  shadow,  and  displayed, 
Until  the  o'ercanopied  horizon  failed, 
Her  rushing  wings, — oh,  she  who  was  almighty  hailed  !" 

and  who  now  stands  unequaled  in  majesty,  crowned  with 
her  immortal  monuments  of  art,  throned  on  her  seven 
hills ! 

Looking  out  over  the  vast  sweep  beneath  them,  with  the 
great  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  and  the  Vatican,  standing  in  bold 
relief  against  the  background  of  the  Campagna; — with  the 
Eden-like  Borghese  grounds  stretching  their  masses  of 
foliage  and  flower-decked  allees  under  their  eyes  ;  with  the 
Antonine  column  towering  in  the  distance,  and  that  grim 
obelisk  of  the  Nile, — and  the  great  round  roof  of  the  Pan- 
theon, pride  of  Rome  !  — 

"  Shrine  of  all  saints  and  temple  of  all  gods,  . 

From  Jove — to  Jesus," 

Standing  erect  in  majestic  grandeur,  as  when  some  two 
thousand  years  ago  the  last  touch  was  put  to  its  simple,  mas- 
sive state  under  direction  of  Agrippa,  before  Christ  was 
born. 

But  Dora  had  raised  her  eyes  from  the  great  city  with 
its  everlasting  monuments,  and  was  gazing  beyond,  where 
fair  Soracte  stood  out  clearly  against  the  blue  enamel  of 


46         THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

the  sky,  whilst  she  strove  to  stir  up,  in  the  young  heart 
beside  her,  the  smouldering  ambition  which  exists  in  every 
nature  worthy  of  a  name.  But  in  that  heart  lay  a  slow 
poison  which  was  spreading  through  every  vein  and  numb- 
ing every  aspiration,  all  energy,  all  hope.  So  he  answered, 
a  little  contemptuously,  "A  name  !  What  is  it  after  all? 
A  whole  life  devoted  to  the  Avinning  of  it,  and  then — a 
puff  in  the  newspapers, — an  epitaph,  and — oblivion  !  The 
greatest  men  in  these  days  are  the  successful  ones,  and  you 
know  a  certain  member  of  Parliament  once  said,  '  I  hear 
a  great  deal  said  here  about  posterity ;  but  let  mc  ask 
frankly,  what  has  posterity  ever  done  for  us  /'  I  think  he 
was  about  right,"  Reginald  concluded,  moodily,  while 
Dora  could  not  restrain  a  smile. 

"Mr.  Faucett  tells  me  you  have  had  your  leave  ex- 
tended ;  is  this  so?" 

"It  is  ;  don't  be  vexed.  I  know  I  promised  you  to  get 
away  to  some  forlorn  spot  in  the  Alps  where  I  could 
devour  my  own  heart  in  a  solitary  unselfishness,  but  I  could 
not  do  it,  and,  unless  you  send  me  away,  I  shall  stay  just 
here  until " 

"  Until  you  have  utterly,  irretrievably  lost  my  respect 
and  your  own ;  until  all  that  is  fine  and  noble  in  your 
nature  grovels  to  the  earth  under  the  influence  of  a  mad 
infatuation,  a  madness  which  must  end,  Mr.  Trelawney, 
sooner  or  later,  and  which,  with  my  consent,  shall  not  last 
another  day  in  my  presence."  Dora  spoke  in  a  low  tone 
of  concentrated  feeling;  pity,  contempt,  and  the  all-for- 
giving sympathy  of  her  woman's  heart  contending  in  one 
wild  tumult. 

During  the  last  three  months  Trelawney  had  been  ever 
at  her  side  ;  morning,  noon,  and  evening  he  was  sure  to  be 
at  hand,  to  chat  with  her,  to  drive  with  her  father  and  her- 
self, to  escort  her  to  the  theatre,  where  D)ke  looked  in 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS.  47 

upon  her  and  begged  Reginald  to  see  her  safely  home 
(safely  !).  In  her  morning  strolls  with  her  sketch-book 
and  little  Marian,  in  her  evening  rambles,  Reginald  was 
always  at  her  service,  with  his  gentle  deference  to  her 
faintest  expressed  wish,  with  his  sunny  temper  and  his 
keen  enjoyment  of  everything,  boyish  still  in  its  pure  zest. 
And  Dora — a  little  recklessly  perhaps, — a  good  deal 
thoughtlessly — allowed  it  all.  Could  she  resist  it  ?  Her 
days  were  empty — he  filled  them  delightfully;  with  invent- 
ive ingenuity,  planned  excursions ;  arranged  picnics  in 
the  environs  of  the  city,  was  indefatigable  as  a  guide- 
book in  the  galleries,  and  palaces,  and  churches;  supplied 
her  with  flowers  enough  to  turn  her  salon  into  Paradise, 
with  music  of  the  newest  selections,  with  books,  and  all 
that  made  up  her  dearest  enjoyments  now.  Her  days 
were  empty  and  he  filled  them,  her  heart  was  desolate  and 
he  cheered  it,  her  mind  was  going  to  sleep  and  he  awakened 
and  stimulated  it  anew. 

For  there  are  natures  so  delicately  Strung  that 

"  Should  tlicir  days 
Melt  to  calm  twilight,  they  feci  overcast 
With  sorrow  and  supincncss,  and  so  die, 
Even  as  a  flame,  unfed,  which  runs  to  waste 
With  its  own  flickenng " 

And  Dora,  with  all  her  sweetness  and  power  of  self- 
renunciation,  was  not  perfect ;  and  in  the  slow,  torturing 
process  which  robbed  her  of  the  last  blessed  liope  of  re- 
animating the  dead,  callous  heart  of  her  husband, — in  the 
last  departing  flicker  of  a  blindness  to  his  true  nature 
which  had  so  enveloped  her  mental  gaze  from  the  very 
first, — she  had  been  more  than  woman,  if  the  sweet  balm 
of  Reginald's  pure  worship  had  failed  to  comfort  her. 
Alas,  she  could  not  go  back  to  the  happy  days  when  her 
father  held  an  unfailing  fount  of  sympathy  for  every  sor- 


48         THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

row  of  her  life  !  She  could  no  more  satisfy  her  question- 
ing soul,  or  calm  her  aching  heart  on  that  loving  breast, 
than  she  could  go  back  and  be  once  more  the  merry, 
joyful,  singing-bird  of  old.    What  wonder,  then,  that  she 

"  Grasps  at  the  fruitage  forbidden, 
The  golden  pomegranates  of  Eden, 
To  quiet  its  fever  and  pain?" — ■ 

recking  little,  in  a  new  selfishness,  that  peace  for  her  may 
mean  utter  wreck  and  ruin  to  the  man  wlio  loved  her  "too 
well."  For  she  never  felt  for  him  more  than  tender  pity, 
an  earnest  affection  and  admiration,  won  by  his  many  ad- 
mirable traits  of  character;  never  more  than  this,  though 
he  poured  the  whole  wealth  of  his  heart  and  mind  and 
soul  at  her  feet.  If  she  had  felt  deeper  interest  in  him 
than  this, — if  his  devotion  had  won  her  love  in  return, — 
the  words  spoken  then  on  the  Pincian  Hill  would  have 
been  uttered  long  before,  and  to  more  purpose,  let  us 
hope.  For  weeks  rolled  on,  and  the  warm  June  days 
drove  them  out  of  Rome  to  the  hills,  and  still  Reginald 
lingered  in  their  wake. 

For  Dyke  Faucett  insisted  that  they  should  not  part 
company  now,  just  when  he  could  be  more  with  them 
and  enjoy  Trelawney's  society,  too.  It  was  all  nonsense  ; 
he  had  six  months'  leave,  why  not  spend  it  with  their 
party?  they  would  not  bore  him  more  than  others,  etc. 
And  Reginald  being  in  love,  and  weaker  than  the  reed 
swayed  by  the  wind,  yielded,  and  remained. 

And  his  love  grew  and  gathered  strength  in  their  moun- 
tain rainbles  and  through  long  days  of  summer  idling  (in 
which  Dyke  rarely  joined),  through  long  twilights,  throb- 
bing with  the  music  of  their  mixed  voices  (for  Trelawncy 
had  learned  to  sing,  whilst  in  Rome,  of  Dora's  old  maes- 
tro).    He  was  hajipy  in  a  sort  of  ecstatic  bliss  which  was 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  49 

half  pain ;  and  she,  looking  forward  with  unceasing  dread, 
feeling  to  her  heart's  core  her  helplessness,  and  a  frantic 
sorrow  in  looking  on  that  wasted  life,  wondering  at  Dyke's 
blindness  or — his  cruelty  (which  was  it  ?) — 


"  Stretched  abroad  her  trembHng  arms 
Upon  the  precincts  of  this  nest  of  pain. 

The  Supreme  God 
At  war  with  all  the  frailty  of  grief, 
Of  rage,  of  fear,  anxiety,  revenge, 
Remorse,  spleen,  hope;  but,  most  of  all,  despair  I" 


CHAPTER     VIII. 

Albano,  that  favorite  resort  of  the  Roman  nobility  dur- 
ing the  "  villeggiatura"  season  from  June  to  October, — 
the  Hampstead  or  Highgate  of  Rome, — celebrated  for  its 
beauty  of  scenery  and  purity  of  air,  was  the  spot  chosen 
by  Dyke  Faucett  as  a  temporary  sojourn  when  the  heat 
became  oppressive  in  the  city. 

Dora  was  pleased,  in  a  calm,  undemonstrative  way,  very 
different  to  the  enthusiastic  delight  which  she  would  have 
expressed  two  or  three  years  ago, — she  lived  outwardly 
then  as  well  as  inwardly;  now  her  inner  life  was  all- 
absorbing,  and  all  outer  demonstration  checked  and 
subdued. 

She  took  pleasure  in  rambling  over  the  ruins  of  the  an- 
cient Roman  villas  and  of  the  great  Amphitheatre,  erected 
by  Domitian,  which  had  been,  in  those  glorious  days  of 
barbarous  magnificence,  the  scene  of  the  most  revolting 
cruelties  under  order  of  the  last  of  the  twelve  Caesars, 
f  5 


50         THE   MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 

Dora  was  becoming  very  fond  of  perching  herself  upon  a 
remnant  of  ruined  wall,  moss-covered,  and  losing  herself 
for  hours  in  idle  dreaming,  while  her  eyes  wandered  over 
the  broad  plain  of  the  Campagna  or  rested  on  the  blue, 
dancing  waves  of  the  Mediterranean,  stretching  out  more 
than  twelve  hundred  feet  beneath  her. 

Or,  with  her  father  and  little  Marian, — always  accom- 
panied, too,  by  Reginald  Trelawney, — she  would  saunter 
along  the  Via  Appia,  under  the  blooming  ilex-trees,  to 
beautiful  Lariccia;  or,  mounting  donkeys,  they  would 
ride  slowly  through  exquisite  scenery  to  the  lonely  Lake  of 
Albano,  lying  in  placid  beauty  in  the  crater  of  an  extin- 
guished volcano. 

Dyke  rarely  joined  these  excursions.  Where  or  how 
he  spent  his  days  and  nights,  Dora  was  supremely  ig- 
norant. 

It  was  his  custom  to  breakfast  late,  and  then,  mounting 
his  horse,  to  ride  off,  with  a  careless  "  ta-ta"  to  Dora  and 
perhaps  a  pat  on  the  golden  curls  of  his  child.  He  seldom 
returned  to  dine,  and  often  not  before  midnight.  Little 
conversation  passed  between  him  and  his  wife, — never  a 
word  of  wrangling;  she  was  too  proud  to  upbraid,  he  too 
diplomatic  to  attempt  to  offer  excuses  or  explanations. 
Mr.  Fairfax  looked  on — and  saw  twilling.  Dora  was  well, 
and  seemed  content.  She  had  her  child  and  every  com- 
fort of  life.  It  seemed  to  be  the  fashion  for  married 
people  to  hold  no  more  than  ceremonious  intercourse  to- 
gether, and  there  was  no  jarring.  He  and  his  Marian 
had  not  lived  together  after  this  fashion  ;  but  then,  he 
had  married  nearly  fifty  years  ago,  and  half  a  century 
brought  changes  in  everything,  manners  and  customs 
included. 

Yes,  Mr.  Fairfax,  in  everything  save  flesh  and  blood; 
a  woman's  heart  can  ache  as  keenly  now  as  in  the  days 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS.  51- 

when  the  "Lily  maid  of  Astolat"  crooned  forth  her 
waiHng  ditty, — 

"  Sweet  is  true  love,  though  given  in  vain,  in  vain ; 
And  sweet  is  Death,  who  puts  an  end  to  pain.  .  .  . 
Sweet  love  that  seems  not  made  to  fade  away" — 

before  she  paid  that  ghostly  visit  with  face  as  white  as  the 
lily  in  her  hand,  and  the  letter  holding  her  heart's  last 
moan  lying  on  the  marble  breast. 

But  Dora,  less  happy  than  Elaine,  could  not  die.  As  she 
saw  slowly  unfolding  before  her  a  long,  loveless,  lonely 
future,  she  braced  herself  to  meet  it  at  least  with  com- 
posure and  tranquil  patience.  "I  cannot  struggle  to  re- 
cover what  never  existed ;  he  fiever  loved  me  from  the 
very  first, — for  love  never  dies.  I  have  just  wrecked  my 
life,  and  must  bear  it  without  complaint.     Ah,  me  ! — 

"  '  None  know  the  choice  I  made,  and  broke  my  heart 
Breaking  mine  idol !  .  .  . 
I  broke  it  at  a  blow,  I  laid  it  cold, 
Crushed,  in  my  deep  heart  where  it  used  to  live. 
My  heart  dies  inch  by  inch  ;  the  time  grows  old, 
Grows  old,  in  which  I  grieve.'  " 

But  she  smiled  and  even  sang  sometimes, — though  her 
song  was  sadder  than  weeping, — and  believed  that  she 
completely  deceived  her  father  and  all  about  her.  But 
she  never  laughed  ;  that  sweet,  rippling,  girlish  laughter, 
which  had  been  one  of  her  rare  charms,  never  welled  up 
from  her  Iieart  again. 

And  there  was  one  pair  of  eyes  which  watched  her  with 
ever  deepening  tenderness,  that  marked  the  slight  but 
eloquent  change  in  her  delicate  features  and  coloring. 
The  eyes  were  softened  by  a  violet  circle  about  them,  the 
pure  oval  of  her  face  was  less  perfect  in  outline,  the  skin 


52         THE   MILLS   OF  THE   GODS. 

looked  waxen  in  its  whiteness,  while  the  full  red  lips 
curved  sadly  downward  faintly  rose-tinted. 

Reginald  Trelawney  did  not  lose  one  sigh,  one  sad  look, 
one  pang  of  disappointment  which  wrote  itself  upon  that 
expressive  face,  and  in  garnering  these  up,  he  built  thereon 
heart-ache  for  himself.  .  .  .  And  she  had  still  another 
friend,  if  an  humble  one.  The  piercing  gray  eyes  of  faith- 
ful Giles  fastened  themselves  upon  her  with  a  keen,  re- 
spectful interest,  awakened  by  her  never-varying  gentle- 
ness, and  his  knowledge  of  his  master's  character.  Slowly, 
surely,  was  that  aroused  pity  and  interest  undermining  his 
dog-like  fidelity  to  Faucett,  a  fidelity  which  for  ten  years 
had  never  wavered,  and  which  Dyke  prized  highly  ;  but 
novv  he  was  to  stand  by  and  see  a  cruel  wrong  done,  a 
crime  beside  which  paled  all  the  numerous  unscrupulous 
deeds  of  evil  which  he  had  known  his  master  to  perpetrate 
without  one  pang  of  self-reproach?  For  Dyke's  sake, 
and  because  in  his  slavish  ignorance  he  believed  it  to 
be  his  duty,  he  had  transformed  himself  into  an  active 
machine,  a  man  of  indestructible  sang-froid,  of  good  judg- 
ment, and  infinite  tact.  But  under  the  crust  of  custom, 
stirred  still  a  heart,  and,  after  some  late  confidences 
wrung  from  Celestine,  the  marquise's  maid  and  confidante 
(when  will  women  learn  to  burn  their  letters  and  hold  their 
tongues?),  he  had  resolutely  determined  that  he  would  not 
stand  by  and  witness  this  crowning  wickedness  of  a  bad 
career. 

For  Celestine  had  divulged  (being  herself  completely 
under  the  thrall  of  a  serious  passion  for  the  masterful  Giles), 
that  her  mistress,  weary  of  waiting  for  the  old  man's  death 
(the  marquis  had  i)romised  by  outward  appearances  to  die 
long  ere  this,  and  failed  to  abide  by  his  promise),  had  de- 
termined to  leave  him,  with  ^'ce  monsieur  Anglais,  aussitot 
que  possible.'^    (They  were  then  stopping  in  the  neighbor- 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE   GODS.  53 

hood,  on  a  visit  to  Prince  Doria  at  his  villa  near  the 
Roman  Gate,  within  an  easy  ride  of  Albano). 

When  the  visit  had  drawn  itself  out  to  proper  limits 
according  to  the  code  of  etiquette,  the  fair  Pauline  de- 
cided to  breathe  the  air  of  Switzerland,  and,  after  a  week 
in  Paris,  she  would  hope  to  see  her  cher  ami  Dyke  in 
Geneva. 

Dora  was  requested  to  prepare  to  accompany  her  hus- 
band, while  Mr.  Fairfax  and  little  Marian  would  remain  at 
Albano  until  their  return.  This  was  a  bitter  trial  to  Dora, 
for  her  child  had  never  yet  been  separated  from  her.  She 
remonstrated,  but  "We  have  taken  the  apartment  in  this 
stupid  place  for  the  summer;  somebody  must  occupy  it; 
Marian  is  doing  very  well  here;  traveling  is  misery  to 
children  ;  come,  don't  fret  about  such  a  trifle,"  etc.,  she 
was  mute  ;  but  another  stone  rolled  to  the  door  of  the 
sepulchre  where  her  dead  love  lay,  and  the  tears  she  shed 
through  the  long,  silent  nights  for  her  baby's  arms  about 
her,  would  have  made  any  mother  weep  from  sympathy. 


CHAPTER    IX. 


"You  must  pardon  my  ohtuseness,  but  really,  Dora,  I 
cannot  see  how  Mr.  Trelawney's  stay  or  departure  can 
affect  your  happiness.  If  he  bores  you,  avoid  him  ;  he  is 
too  well-bred  to  persecute  you  ;  if  not,  and  he  amuses  you, 
why  should  he  not  remain?"  And  Dyke  stretched  him- 
self into  an  easier  position  on  the  lounge  in  Dora's  dress- 
ing-room, at  the  Hotel  Metropole,  Geneva.  They  had 
just  arrived,  and  Trelawncy,  still  in  their  suite,  had  been 

5* 


54 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


again  earnestly  solicited  by  Faucett  to  take  vip  his  quarters 
in  their  hotel,  and  postpone  his  trip  to  Chamounix,  and 
ascent  of  Mont  Blanc,  until  they  all  could  go  together 
(Dyke,  having  promised  to  meet  some  friends  in  Geneva, 
awaited  their  arrival).  Dora  had  at  last  determined  to 
speak  very  plainly  to  her  husband,  and  show  him  clearly 
to  what  this  fatuous  indifference  on  his  part  was  inevitably 
pointing.  It  was  a  bitter,  painful  task  for  her,  as  it  must 
ever  be  to  a  sensitive,  high-strung  woman,  to  tear  open 
the  eyes  of  a  man  willfully  blinding  himself  to  his  own  dis- 
honor. For  there  was  no  mistaking  Reginald's  utter  self- 
abandonment  to  the  madness  which  was  fast  depriving 
him  of  even  a  show  of  regard  for  appearances.  He  was 
very  nearly  reckless  of  consequences,  and  did  not  care  to 
conceal  it  always.  As  his  contempt  for  Faucett  increased, 
seeing  farther  into  the  depths  of  that  cruel,  selfish  heart, 
than  Dora,  his  pity  and  love  gained  in  strength,  until 
they  mastered  every  other  feeling  of  his  nature.  He  felt 
almost  as  if  his  duty  was  involved  in  remaining  with  them 
constantly,  that  he  might  be  at  hand  to  protect  and  shield 
this  fragile,  unsuspicious,  broken-spirited  woman  from 
deadly  danger,  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  danger  the  direst 
lay  in  the  very  protecting  influence  he  offered  as  a  shield. 
And  now  Dora  had  determined,  at  all  costs,  to  end  this 
feverish,  daily  increasing  infatuation  of  poor  Trelawney's, 
and  through  licr  husband's  interposition,  for  she  had 
failed  hitherto  in  convincing  him,  unsupported  by  Dyke's 
concurrence. 

"  It  is  not  that  he  bores  me,"  she  said,  after  a  moment ; 
"indeed,  it  is  because  I  am  begitwing  to  feel  iJiat  I  can 
scarcely  do  without  lii'/ii  ;  /shall  miss  him  so  sorely,  tiiat  I 

tliink  it  better  that  he  should  break  off  from  us "  (she 

waited  expectantly;  Dyke  yawned.)  "  Do  you  realize," 
she  continued,  "that  he  has  been  incessantly  at  my  side 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  55 

during  the  last  six  months  ?  Do  you  realize  that  he  is  a 
man  without  ties,  young,  capable  of  feeling,  capable  of 
suffering  ?' ' 

"And  that  he  is  in  love  with  you?"  put  in  Dyke. 

Her  color  deepened.  "Yes,  if  you  will  have  me  say 
it;  that  he  has  loved  me  since  the  first  day  I  met  him" 
("Bah  !"  ejaculated  her  husband,  incredulously), — "who 
has  loved  me,"  she  went  on,  steadily, — "  and  will  love  me 
as  long  as  he  lives." 

"Well,  that  does  not  hurt  you,  does  it?  I  am  not 
afraid  of  him  or  any  man  ;  why  should  you  excite  your- 
self about  such  rubbish  as  this?" 

She  left  her  seat  in  the  window,  looking  out  over  the 
peaceful  lake,  and  came  quite  close  to  him.  "Because  it 
is  not  rubbish ;  it  is  shi,  and  pain,  and  grief, — and  per- 
haps remorse  or  despair; — who  knows?  Because jw/  have 
wearied  of  me,  and  seen  fit  to  starve  to  death  every 
loving  fibre  of  my  heart,  do  you  think  that  it  is  quite 
impossible  for  any  other  hand  to  touch  my  heart- 
strings? Ah,  Dyke,  take  care!  I  may  seem  numb  and 
dead  to  you  ;  but  there  is  life  beneath  the  surface  yet ; 
if  you  have  no  pity  for  him,  have  at  least  some  care 
for  me  !" 

She  paced  the  room  with  uneven  steps  after  that  last 
wail  escaped  her,  and  then  stood  again  at  the  window, 
awaiting,  yet  dreading,  his  reply.  None  came;  was  his 
indignation,  his  wounded  pride,  at  length  aroused?  Was 
he  gathering  strength  to  launch  calmly  at  her  the  bitter 
sentence  which  would  prove  that  love  was  not  entirely 
extinct  even  yet,  and  that  her  cry  of  despair  had  touched 
one  vital  spot?  Oh,  would  to  Heaven  this  were  so! 
Anger,  contempt,  curses,  blows  even,  would  have  wounded 
less  cruelly  than  the  sound  which  now  caused  her  to  raise 
her  drooping  head   to   listen,  and   then  she  crossed  the 


56         THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 

room  swiftly- and  stood  looking  down  on  the  cold,  cruel, 
handsome  face.  The  eyes  were  closed,  the  jaw  relaxed 
(the  sound  she  heard  had  been  something  between  a  groan 
and  a  chuckle),  and  Dyke  was  sleeping  profoundly  ! 

For  one  instant  Dora  gazed  at  him  while  her  heart 
seemed  to  contract  with  sharp  pain,  and  then,  with  curl- 
ing lip  and  head  erect,  she  swept  out  of  the  room. 

On,  along  the  corridor,  until  she  gained  the  door  of 
her  salon  ;  and  there  entering,  turned  the  key  and  threw 
herself,  face  downward,  on  the  couch  in  one  corner  of  the 
room  and  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears. 

Ah  me!  hope  had  died  forever;  the  last  blow  had 
been  dealt  by  that  ruthless  hand — to  faith,  and  trust,  and 
love.  Alone  she  must  stand  for  evermore ;  alone,  de- 
fenseless, in  the  hands  of  a  man  as  unscrupulous  as  he 
was  heartless,  to  whom  she  could  never  look  again  for 
affection,  comfort,  or  protection. 

"Oh,  Dyke!"  she  sobbed,  "  if  you  had  only  killed 
mc  at  one  blow  !  Oh,  Heaven  pity  me  !"  Heart-break- 
ing was  the  convulsion  which  seemed  to  rend  her  frail 
form  in  its  fierce  agony  (what  grief  so  bitter  as  the  tearing 
from  one's  heart  the  idol  which  has  proved  unworthy  of 
its  sacred  shrine?).  But  there  were  dregs  still  in  the  cup 
of  her  anguish  which  she  had  not  tasted  yet. 

Reginald  Trelawney,  smoking  on  the  balcony  upon 
which  these  windows  opened,  was  startled  out  of  a  sor- 
rowful reverie  by  the  sound  of  suppressed  weeping,  and 
the  moaning  cry  which  burst  irrepressibly  from  Dora's 
lips  reached  liim  as  he  stood  irresolute  a  moment  on  tlie 
threshold  of  the  window,  with  eyes  fixed  wonderingly  on 
the  prone  figure  of  the  woman  whom  he  had  learned  to 
worship  above  all  else  on  earth.  One  moment,  and  then 
a  swift  stride  or  two  brought  him  to  the  couch,  where  he 
cast  himself  on  his  knees,  crying  wildly, — 


THE  MILLS    01'    THE    GODS.  57 

"What  is  this?  Dora!  Mrs.  Faucett !  Oh,  what  has 
happened  ?  Speak  to  me  ;  tell  me.  I  cannot  bear  to  see 
this  grief!" 

His  arms  were  about  her,  his  voice  strained  and  harsh, 
his  face  grown  white  with  sympathy  for  a  sorrow  of  which 
he  felt  the  cause.  But  Dora  only  raised  her  hand  and 
motioned  him  away,  creeping  closer  into  the  shelter  of 
the  cushions  on  the  lounge,  weeping  no  less  bitterly  at 
this  additional  trial. 

"  I  will  not  go  !"  cried  Reginald,  answering  her  move- 
ment. "My  place  is  here  at  your  feet;  you  would  not 
spurn  a  dog  away  from  you;  and  I  am  not  less  faithful. 
Oh,  Dora,  raise  your  dear  head  and  speak  to  me;  let  me 
help  you  if  I  can  ;  even  by  going  away  from  you  forever, 
if  I  in  any  way  have  caused  this  pain.  Do  not  fear;  I 
am  strong  enough  to  leave  you,  but  too  weak  to  see  you 
suffer."  And  he  bowed  his  head  upon  the  back  of  the 
couch,  and  tears  trickled  slowly  down  his  cheeks. 

Dora  raised  her  head  with  an  effort.  "  Oh,  Heaven  !" 
she  cried,  "do  you  care  enough  for  me  to  lucep?  Are 
there  tears,  then,  in  some  men's  hearts?  Are  they  not 
all  stone,  hard  and  cruel,  and  cold?"  Dreamily  she 
spoke,  while  her  face  was  wet  with  tears;  and  her  great, 
sad  eyes  turned  wistfully  towards  Reginald,  recalled  for- 
cibly to  his  mind  that  incarnation  of  passionate  yet  child- 
like sorrow,  the  Beatrice  of  Guido.  He  trembled  from 
head  to  foot  as  she  passed  her  hand  caressingly  over  his 
fair,  wavy  hair,  murmuring  as  she  did  so,  more  to  herself 
than  to  him,  "A  woman  is  such  a  pitiful  thing, — such  a 
trailing,  twining,  weak-spirited  thing,  that  when  she  is 
torn  from  a  support  she  has  grown  used  to,  she  must 
needs  grovel  and  lie  in  the  dust  and  wail.  Oh,  my  friend, 
you  may  well  pity  me;  but  your  tears  would  give  me 
more  pain  if  my  heart  were  not   all    numb  and  cold." 


58 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 


She  sank  back  now  wearily;    the  storm  had  passed  and 
left  exhaustion. 

"But,  wliy,"  Reginald  urged, — "  why  have  you  been 
so  grieved  ?  Who  has  been  so  wicked  as  to  hurt  your 
tender  heart  ?  Who  has  dared  to  make  you  so  wretched  ? 
Oh,  in  pity  tell  me  what  has  caused  this  !" 

She  answered  nothing,  but  lay  back  pale  as  a  lily, 
with  violet  shadows  under  the  large  eyes,  while  Reginald, 
still  kneeling  before  her,  caressed  her  hand,  lying  limp 
and  motionless  in  his.  She  scarcely  knew  he  was  there; 
her  thoughts  were  straying  back  to  the  burial  of  her  dead 
love  ;  she  mourned  in  her  soul  over  the  grave  of  her  most 
treasured  hopes, — over  the  long,  desolate,  worse  than 
widowed  future  which  stared  in  her  face  in  its  emptiness; 
and  then  the  vision  of  Dyke  asleep  in  heartless  unconcern 
stung  her  again,  and  she  moaned  aloud. 

Reginald  could  not  bear  suspense  quietly  ;  lie  started  to 
his  feet,  and  strode  rapidly  up  and  down  the  room,  Dora 
following  every  movement  witli  dreamy,  unseeing  eyes. 
But  she  was  aroused  from  her  apathy  when  he  stopped 
suddenly  before  her  and  spoke  in  a  husky  voice,  and  with 
an  expression  she  had  never  seen  before  on  his  young  face. 

"You  will  not  tell  me  your  sorrow?  Well,  I  know  it; 
I  have  known  it  all  along :  since  the  very  first  days  when 
I  met  you  in  Rome  ;  indeed"  (with  a  short,  harsh  laugh), 
"'who  docs  not  know?  But  let  that  ])ass  ;  the  present 
is  what  we  have  to  look  to, — and  the  future.  What 
do  you  mean  to  do,  Dora?  Do  you  dream  of  living 
on  in  this  ghastly  fashion, — a  wife  and  yet  no  wife ; 
bearing  your  husband's  name,  and  yet  unacknowledged, 
denied,  repudiated! — neglected,  exposed,  unshielded?" 
Dora  gazed  up  at  liim,  silent,  under  a  horrible  fascination  ; 
he  went  on:  "And  he,  is  it  not  enough  that  he  thus 
forswears  himself,  and  breaks  every  vow  which  binds  In'm 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  59 

to  you?  But  he  must  make  his  story  a  by-word  in  the 
towns  wherever  he  moves ;  he  must  flaunt  his  devotion  to 
the  Marquise  de  Courboisie  everywhere.  She  it  is,  he 
awaits  here,  she  it  is  who  enchained  him  in  Rome,  in 
Paris,  even  in  the  hills  where  you  rusticated  and  enjoyed 
your  simple,  primitive  life,  unconscious  of  her  proximity. 
Ah,  what  it  has  cost  me  to  keep  silent!  What  pangs  of 
self-abasement  to  touch  that  man's  hand,  to  sit  at  his 
board,  to  breathe  the  same  air  he  breathed  !  And  yet, 
what  could  I  do?  Could  I  leave  you,  poor  lamb  !  in  the 
fangs  of  this  wolf?  Could  I  go  aw^ay  from  you  knowing 
well  that  iliis  day  must  dawn  soon  ;  that  you  would  have 
to  bear  the  bitter  pain  which  wrings  your  heart  to-day, 
— alone?  No;  my  life  is  not  worth  much,  but  to  its 
very  last  breath  it  \%  yours  ;  yours  to  use,  to  be  sure  of,  to 
trample  upon,  if  you  so  please,  but  still  yours  forever. 
As  long  as  I  live  my  arm  shall  protect  you,  and  my 
heart  shall  come  between  you  and  any  pain  which  it  can 
shield  from  you."  He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
couch,  and  looked  straight  into  Dora's  eyes.  "Answer 
me  one  question  !"  he  almost  commanded  :  "is  your  love 
for  this  man  quite  dead?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  in  a  strange  voice;   "quite, — 
quite  dead  !" 

"Then  you  can  bear  to  hear  something  from  me?" 
he  asked. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  can  bear  anything."  Still  in  that  odd, 
constrained  tone. 

"  This  man  you  call  your  husband  has  plotted  to  get  rid 
of  you, — this  sounds  cruel,  but  I  musfsay  it, — and  failing, 
through  your  angelic  purity,  he  has  resolved  to  leave  you. 
His  plans  are  well  laid,  and  I  hold  the  key  to  every  move. 
He  means  to  elope  with  the  Marquise  de  Courboisie  and 
leave  you  in  my  charge.     All  this  has  been  divulged  to  me 


6o         THE  MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 

by  a  man  who  was  devoted  to  him,  body  and  soul,  until 
he  learned  to  know  j'f«  and  your  gentle  sweetness  won  his 
■^heart.  Oh,  Dora,  you  may  imagine  what  a  night  I  passed 
after  this  man  Giles  came  to  my  bedroom  door  last  night 
and  implored  vie  to  interfere  to  save  you,  telling  me  the 
whole  vile  plot,  and  all  the  circumstances  of  your  secret 
marriage.  Heaven  help  me  !  I  should  have  shot  that 
villain  like  a  dog,  had  he  crossed  my  path  last  night.  But 
that  would  leave  you  more  defenseless  still ;  I  must  be 
patient."  He  resumed  his  pacing  back  and  forth,  and 
Dora  watched  him  as  before  ;  but  in  her  white  cheeks 
burned  now  two  spots  of  crimson,  and  her  eyes  had  the 
cold  glitter  of  steel  in  their  depths.  When  Reginald  came 
near  again  his  voice  was  very  low  and  pleading,  and  his 
eyes  were  soft  with  tenderness. 

"  Dora,  you  must  come  away  with  me;  there  is  nothing 
left  for  you  to  do ;  nothing  will  come  amiss  to  this  man 
if  he  once  desires  an  obstacle  removed.  I  cannot  leave 
you  in  such  terrible  danger,  and  I  can  no  longer  meet 
that  devil  face  to  f:xce  without  telling  him  my  thoughts. 
You  will  come  with  me,  my  darling, — you  and  your  father 
and  little  Marian, — home  to  dear  England,  where  the  law 
will  soon  free  you  from  this  wretch?  Oh,  Dora,  I  am  not 
pleading  selfishly.  I  know  there  is  not  a  shadow  of  hope 
for  me ;  you  never  even  pretended  to  care  for  me,  and 
I  do  not  think  you  ever  will ;  but  \ou  will  give  me  a 
brother's  right  to  protect  and  help  you  in  this  sad  moment, 
will  you  not  ?" 

Dora  slowly  rose  to  her  feet ;  not  one  word  had  escaped 
lier  of  all  that  he  had  said ;  each  one  was  an  arrow 
shot  straight  into  her  heart ;  she  was  quivering  all  over 
with  pain  and  horror  as  she  stood  before  him,  looking  up 
into  his  honest,  manly  face.  Then  she  rested  her  two 
hands  lightly  on  his  shoulders,  and  said,  with  incomparable 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  Ci 

sweetness,  "God  bless  you;  you  are  very  noble.  Oh,  I 
do  trust  you,  my  brother  !"  And,  as  he  quickly  bent  his 
head,  she  touched  his  cheek  with  her  lips,  and  in  a 
moment  he  was  alone. 

As  Dora  sped  along  the  passage  to  her  own  apartments 
she  encountered  a  party  of  new  arrivals  ;  shrinking  behind 
a  pillar,  she  saw  them  pass :  a  decrepit  old  man  supported 
by  a  valet,  followed  by  a  stylish  little  girl  about  five  years 
old,  and  her  maid  ;  behind  them,  the  beautiful  Marquise 
de  Courboisie,  leaning  on  Dyke  Faucett's  arm,  and  speak- 
ing in  low,  confidential  tones  in  French,  close  to  his  ear. 
Just  as  he  closed  the  door  upon  the  party  in  their  hand- 
some suite  of  rooms,  a  cry  from  one  of  the  house-maids  at 
the  other  end  of  the  corridor  attracted  his  attention.  He 
was  about  to  turn  away  in  an  opposite  direction,  when 
the  woman  perceived  him,  and  called  out,  "Ah,  Monsieur, 
voila  Madame  qui  s'est  trouvee  mal,  venez  vite,  je  vous  en 
prie  ;"  and  Faucett,  advancing,  had  the  felicity  of  figuring 
in  a  coup-de-scenc,  and  carrying  his  insensible  wife  to  her 
bedroom. 

Dora  recovered  her  consciousness  only  to  fall  into  high 
fever,  which  showed  symj)toms  of  serious  illness,  and  over 
which  the  medical  man,  who  had  been  hastily  summoned, 
shook  his  head  gravely. 

That  night,  as  the  impassive  Giles  laid  out  his  master's 
evenimj  dress  and  inserted  the  studs  in  the  delicate 
embroidery  under  which  his  bad  heart  held  its  secrets,  lie 
made  a  vast  effort,  and,  gulping  down  the  last  spasm  of 
reluctance  at  breaking  old  bonds,  spoke  out, — 

"  I  desire  to  give  warning,  sir,  if  you  please." 

"Hey!  what!"  ejaculated  Faucett,  turning  sharply 
round  from  the  mirror  with  one  side  of  his  face  covered 
with  lather  and  his  razor  upheld  in  his  hand.  "  Did  you 
speak,  Giles?" 

6 


62         THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir;  but  I  said  that  I  desire  to  give 
warning.  This  day  month,  sir,  I  should  wish  to  return  to 
England." 

Dyke  looked  at  him  fixedly.  "  Hem  !  you  have  been 
offered  higher  wages,  have  you?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sir.  You  have  been  most  liberal,"  answered 
Giles,  delicately  sprinkling  his  master's  inner  vest  from 
an  arrosoir  of  violets  and  giving  a  "  legere  teinture"  of 
the  same  to  the  exquisite  handkerchief. 

"Ah,  you  are  in  love,  then;  there  is  some  Mary  Ann 
in  the  case  ;   you  wish  to  marry?" 

"Ah,  no,  sir;  I  have  no  thought  of  marrying." 

"What  the  deuce  do  you  leave  me  for,  then?  You 
suit  me.  Have  I  found  ftuilt  with  you?  Come,  what 
is  it?" 

"  You  have  been  a  kind  master  to  me,  sir,"  answered 
poor  Giles,  in  trembling  tones  ;  "  but  still,  sir,  I  mean  to 
leave  you, — this  day  montli,  if  you  please,  sir." 

Dyke  turned  around  again,  this  time  pale  with  rage. 
"Not  this  day  month,  but  to-night;  there!"  throwing 
him  a  handful  of  napoleons.  "  I  paid  you  up  last  week  ; 
there  are  a  month's  wages  ;  begone  !" 

"  Oh,  sir!"  began  Giles. 

"Leave  the  room  !"  thundered  Dyke.  And  the  door 
closed  softly  on  the  retreating  form  of  the  best  servant 
man  ever  had. 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  (yT^ 


CHAPTER     X. 

It  will  scarcely  be  necessary  to  assure  those  who  have 
correctly  gauged  the  profound,  callous  egotism  of  Dyke 
Faucett's  moral  nature,  that,  however  reckless  and  unscru- 
pulous he  became  in  regard  to  the  future  welfare  of  others, 
he  had  always  been  able  to  hold  in  leash  his  desires  when 
they  threatened  wreck  to  himself.  Only  in  one  in- 
stance— never  to  be  sufficiently  deplored — had  he  allowed 
his  passion  to  overtop  his  calculating  reason, — in  the  case 
where  Dora's  exceptionally  powerful  fascination,  against 
which  he  had  struggled  in  vain,  caused  him  to  succumb  at 
last,  feeling  that  when  the  inevitable  weariness  supervened, 
his  ready  genius  of  evil  would  furnish  an  avenue  of 
escape  for  him. 

For  in  the  early  days  of  his  courtship  and  marriage  he 
laid  no  subtle  plot  to  give  form  and  feature  to  his  subse- 
quent dastardly  wickedness;  tlie  idea  of  making  his  mar- 
riage as  private  as  possible,  and  keeping  it  as  secret,  with 
the  distiuct  possibility  of  being  able  to  repudiate  its 
claims  when  they  became  irksome,  had  not  prompted  his 
action  at  that  time.  To  plan  would  have  involved  some 
deterioration  of  the  sentiment,  which,  false  as  it  was,  ab- 
sorbed him, — and  would  have  cost  him  some  labor  of  in- 
vention and  thought, — was  work,  which  he  shifted  aside 
as  much  as  practicable. 

And  the  years  had  brought  out  the  realization  of  his 
anticipations.  He  had  won  Dora,  and  wearied  of  her; 
and  without  the  least  effort  or  the  slightest  ruffle  on  the 
surface  of  his  equable  life,  he  had  given  her  to  understand 
this;  and  they  had   just  drifted  apart,  and    soon  would 


64         THE  MILLS   OF  THE   GODS. 

stand  on  either  side  of  a  fathomless  gulf.  For,  judging 
her  nature  by  his  own,  and  that  of  the  many  women  he 
had  known  (all  being  of  one  type,  in  different  degrees), 
he  never  doubted  for  one  moment  that,  sooner  or  later, 
she,  driven  by  loneliness  and  the  bitterness  of  disappoint- 
ment, would — in  the  futile  vengeance  some  women  grasp 
with  the  avidity  of  despair — cross  that  gulf.  That  he 
gave  her  every  opportunity  ;  that  he  strove  to  the  best  of 
his  ability  to  point  out  to  her  the  way;  that  he  found  in 
Reginald  Trelawney's  self-abnegating  devotion  tlie  very 
weapon  at  his  hand  wherewith  to  slay  her  soul,  only 
proves  that  the  way  of  the  transgressor  is  sometimes 
smooth  enough  to  excite  one's  wondering  awe  ! 

But  that  he  intended  to  expedite  matters  by  doing  vio- 
lence to  the  world's  opinions  in  eloping  with  a  married 
woman,  and  thus  at  one  blow  cutting  off  from  himself  his 
guardian's  respect  and  affection  (with  their  abundant  fruit, 
his  princely  income),  and  burdening  himself  anew  with  a 
woman  who  loved  him  and  was  destitute  entirely  of  that 
fine,  sensitive  pride  which  Dora  had  no  lack  of,  did  not 
enter  into  his  calculations  for  one  moment.  In  the  fervid 
brain  of  romantic  Celestine,  and  perhaps  faintly  sug- 
gested as  a  remote  conclusion  by  her  impetuous  mistress, 
alone  was  such  self-sacrifice  as  this  dreamed  of. 

The  marquise  and  Dyke  Faucctt  were  certainly  on 
terms  of  intimate  friendship, — rather  more  implied  than 
expressed  on  his  side,  for  he  rarely  committed  himself  in 
words,  never  on  paper  ;  but  he  was  always  gallant,  ele- 
gant, handsome,  and  ready  to  admire  her  coquetries, — and 
she  loved  him.  If  the  future  held  some  shadowy  hopes 
for  her,  built  upon  the  rickety  life  of  her  aged  spouse, 
she  kept  them  for  her  solitary  hours — and  her  maid's 
delectation. 

Therefore    the   last   blow,  which    bowed    poor    Dora's 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  65 

head  to  the  earth,  and  lost  Dyke  a  well-trained  servant, 
was  dealt  by  fate  through  the  agency  of  a  silly  woman's 
prattle. 

And  is  not  the  world  full  of  wrecks  which  have  come 
to  grief  in  those  same  babbling  shallows? 

Dora  lay  ill  for  weeks,  fighting  with  helpless  hands,  in 
the  delirium  of  fever,  the  spectres  of  her  broken  life  and 
shattered  hopes,  wailing  out  her  plaints  in  the  uncompre- 
hending ears  of  a  Swiss  nurse,  who  watched  her  care- 
fully and  pitied  her  wretchedness,  in  her  stolid,  matter-of- 
fact  fashion. 

And  Dyke,  making  inquiry  through  his  new  valet  each 
morning  and  evening,  found  she  was  making  slow  progress 
towards  recovery,  and  consoled  himself  for  that  fact  in 
throwing  a  faint  tendresse  into  his  customary  insouciant 
manner  with  the  beautiful  Pauline,  who  was  totally  un- 
aware of  the  existence  of  a  wife. 

True,  she  had  seen  Dora  once  or  twice  with  Dyke — in 
his  box  at  the  opera,  veiled  by  the  drapery, — but,  when 
questioned,  Dyke  would  eloquently  shrug  his  shoulders, 
raise  his  eyebrows,  and  dismiss  the  subject.  The  mar- 
quise formed  her  own  conclusions,  and,  frowning  out- 
wardly, smiled  inwardly. 

During  these  weeks  of  Dora's  illness,  I  fear  Trelawney 
suffered  most  of  all.  He  spent  his  days  lounging  about 
the  corridors,  waylaying  the  physician,  the  nurse,  the 
servants,  who  entered  or  came  from  Dora's  rooms.  His 
nights  were  weary  wanderings  along  the  lake  border, 
within  call  from  the  Hotel  Metropole — for,  by  liberal 
donations,  he  had  won  from  the  Swiss  garde-maiade  the 
promise  that,  should  her  patient  develop  new  symptoms 
or  sink  into  the  lethargy  which  would  be  the  precursor 
of  death,  he  should  be  called  to  her  side  immediately. 
He  was  intoleral)ly  wretched  ;  and  Giles  (whom  Reginald 

6-- 


66         THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

had  at  once  engaged  in  his  own  service)  was  as  anxious 
and  nervous  about  his  late  mistress  as  a  well-trained 
servant  dared  to  be. 

He  it  was  who,  seated  on  a  chair  outside  her  door, 
watched  during  those  three  fearful  nights,  when  the 
doctor  acknowledged  that  he  dreaded  the  dawning  of  the 
morning,  ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to  fly  to  Reginald's 
room  ;  which  he,  dressed,  haggard,  wild  with  grief,  paced 
in  impotent  anguish.  He  it  was  who,  during  Dora's  slow 
convalescence,  scoured  the  country  far  and  wide  for  fruits 
and  flow^ers,  and  delicacies  of  all  kinds,  to  tempt  the 
capricious  appetite  of  the  invalid.  And  on  those  occa- 
sions,— very  seldom  they  were,  when  Dyke  approached 
to  inquire  himself  of  her  welfare, — Giles  would  rise 
to  his  feet  from  his  seat  outside  her  door,  and  stand 
motionless  before  his  former  master ;  Dyke,  completely 
ignoring  his  existence,  would  tap  upon  the  panel  of  the 
door,  and  inquire  of  the  nurse,  in  languid  accents,  how 
her  patient  fared?  Then  Giles,  girded  in  spirit,  years 
of  slavish  devotion,  of  unfaltering  fidelity,  could  be 
obliterated  in  the  heart  and  memory  of  this  hard,  cold 
man  by  one  single  act  of  self-assertion,  one  effort  to  be 
true  himself,  to  his  better  instincts. 

Dyke  never  met  Trelawney  now ;  the  latter  avoided 
him  with  a  horror  which  was  almost  a  mania  ;  he  felt  that 
if  Dora  died,  he  must  kill  this  man  I  and,  I  fear,  in  that 
ghastly  anticipation  he  found  his  only  solace. 

But  Dora  did  not  die;  there  was  tugging  at  her  heart- 
strings when  that  deathly  weakness  which  is  the  twin-sister 
of  Death  followed  the  fever  and  pain,  and  was  almost 
tempting  in  its  restful  promis:^  of  oblivion,  the  tiny  hand 
of  little  Marian.  "I  must  live  for  her,  my  little  one, — 
poor,  helpless  orphan  baby  !  what  would  become  of  her 
without  me?     I  will  live  T     And  she  gathered  strength 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


67 


daily,  to  enable  her  to  get  back  to  her  darling  and  her 
father,  whose  anxiety  was  but  slightly  veiled  in  his  letters. 
Dyke,  fearing  his  father-in-law  would  follow  them,  had 
written  concisely  from  time  to  time  of  Dora's  illness,  and 
always  from  the  most  sanguine  view,  promising  as  soon  as 
she  was  able  to  travel,  to  return  to  Italy,  or  take  her  to 
some  quiet  place,  where  they  would  expect  him  and  little 
Marian  to  join  them. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  decide  which  face  had  changed 
most  perceptibly  during  the  last  three  weeks, — Dora's  or 
Reginald  Trelawney's.  As  she  raised  her  eyes,  and 
stretched  forth  a  thin  hand  to  greet  him,  she  could 
scarcely  repress  a  cry  of  surprise  and  sorrow  at  the 
marked  alteration  of  his  features.  The  healthy  bronze 
had  all  worn  off  his  fair  skin,  and  a  white  pallor  had 
superseded  it,  void  of  ruddy  tinge ;  his  frank  gray  eyes 
looked  larger  than  she  had  known  them,  and  had  a 
strained  look  of  habitual  pain  in  their  expression  ;  and 
there  were  lines  about  the  mouth  which  told  of  sleepless 
nights  of  anxiety  and  suffering. 

He  came  forward  and  took  her  hand  silently,  fearing 
to  trust  himself  to  speak,  and  then  sat  down  beside  her 
great  easy-chair,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hand. 
Dora,  looking  at  him  and  noting  the  changes  in  his  face 
and  figure, — for  his  coat  hung  loosely  now  on  those  square 
shoulders, — felt  sorrowful  compassion,  knowing  full  well 
whence  this  change  had  been  wrought ;  and,  when  he 
raised  his  head,  he  saw  the  tears  steal  down  her  white 


68         THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

face, — tears  of  weakness  and  profound  pity.  Every  effort 
to  control  himself  vanished.  In  a  moment  he  was  stand- 
ing before  her,  imploring,  entreating,  commanding  by 
turns;  his  eyes  wild;  his  haggard  face  lit  up  with  hope; 
his  heart  throbbing,  so  that  he  almost  feared  she  would 
hear  it. 

"  Oh,  Dora,  you  must  not  let  him  take  you  away  ;  you 
shall  not  trust  yourself  with  him  again.  I  can  no  longer 
endure  this  anguish  ;  I  cannot  leave  you  in  his  hands  ;  oh, 
have  pity,  have  pity!"  And  he  cast  himself  down  again 
at  her  side,  shaken  with  the  passion  of  his  last  appeal  from 
head  to  foot.     At  last  her  sweet  voice  broke  the  silence, — 

"  I  have  been  very  close  to  death,  Reginald,  and  almost 
on  the  threshold  of  the  other  world  ;  things  which  before 
seemed  obscure  and  clouded  to  my  eyes  grew  clear,  and 
pointed  out  my  path  to  me.  Reginald,  I  am  a  wife  in 
God's  sight  and  my  own,  whatever  the  world  chooses  to 
call  me,  and  it  is  not  right  that  you  should  come  near 
me  with  such  words  on  your  lips,  such  feelings  in  your 
heart.  I  have  sent  for  you  to-day  to  tell  you  this  for  the 
last  time,  and  to  ask  you  to  return  to  England,  and  not  to 
add  to  the  grievous  burden  of  my  life, — your  wretched- 
ness !"  She  paused,  exhausted,  and  he  rose  up  again  and 
took  her  hand. 

*'/  will  not ;  trust  me.  I  shall  spare  you  all  further 
sight  of  my  sorrow,  only  tell  me  this :  Should  you  need 
me ;  should  the  day  come  when  a  brother's  love  could 
shield  you, — will  you  send  for  me  ?  Will  you  promise  to 
do  this?" 

"I  will,"  she  answered,  simply. 

He  took  from  his  pocket-book  a  card  and  laid  it  on  her 
lap.  "  This  address  will  always  find  me.  I  shall  return  to 
England  as  soon  as  you  leave  Geneva,  and  I  shall  not  stir 
out  of  it  until  you  call  me.     D  )  not  grieve,"  he  entreated, 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS.  69 

as  her  lip  quivered,  "do  not;  I  cannot  bear  it.  I  will 
do  all  that  I  know  you  would  wish.  I  will  leave  here 
to-night  for  Chamounix,  and — Dora,  say  '  Good-by,  Re- 
ginald. '" 

Dora  raised  her  streaming  eyes,  and  tried  to  smile 
through  the  tears.     "  Good-by,  dear  Reginald,"  she  said. 

He  bent  and  looked  into  her  face  a  look  of  such  wild 
hunger  and  despair  that  her  heart  sank  within  her,  then 
pressed  his  lips  to  her  frail  little  hand,  and  the  sound  of 
his  step  along  the  passage  told  that  he  had  gone,  gone, 
and  left  her  truly  desolate. 

A  few  days  later.  Dyke  started  with  his  wife  and  the 
Swiss  nurse  for  France,  where  they  settled  down  at  last  in 
a  neat,  small  apartment  in  Tours,  and  were  joined  imme- 
diately by  Mr.  Fairfax,  Marian,  Antonio,  and  Clementine. 

Dyke  had  scarcely  established  them,  and  Dora,  still 
prostrated  from  her  recent  illness,  had  just  grown  strong 
enough  to  creep  out  for  an  hour  or  two  in  the  little  garden 
which  inclosed  their  pension,  when  a  sudden  shock  felled 
her  once  more  to  the  earth. 

The  Galignani,  and  one  or  two  other  journals,  had  been 
ordered  by  Dyke  to  be  sent  regularly,  for  the  air  was  full 
of  rumors  of  war,  and  the  papers  of  thrilling  interest. 
Sitting  in  the  rustic  porch,  with  Marian  playing  at  her  feet, 
Dora  glanced  carelessly  over  the  columns  of  the  Messenger. 
Mechanically  she  began  to  read  an  article  headed, — 

"Distressing  cccident  on  Mont  Blanc.  A  party  of 
English  and  American  tourists  lost  in  an  avalanche.  No 
recovery  of  the  bodies  possible,  etc.  etc." 

She  read  on,  without  feeling  the  actuality  of  the  occur- 
rence, until  she  came  to  the  following  paragraph  : 

"We  regret  to  record  among  the  lost,  the  only  son  of 


70 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


a  highly  esteemed  officer  in  the  British  army,  General 
Winstanley  Trelawney.  He  was  also  an  officer  in  Her 
Majesty's  service,  and  said  to  have  been  a  most  promising 
young  man.  The  bodies  of  Mr.  Reginald  Trelawney  and 
his  servant,  Giles  Humphreys,  have  not  been  recovered." 

With  a  faint  cry  Dora  slid  off  her  chair  to  the  ground, 
whilst  Marian  rent  the  air  with  shrieks  of  terror. 

On  being  carried  to  her  bed,  she  revived,  only  to  experi- 
ence a  relapse  of  her.  first  attack.  Fortunately,  her  nurse 
was  still  with  her,  and  an  able  physician  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, but  it  was  a  close  wrestle  once  more  with  death. 

Dyke  had  been  on  the  point  of  starting  for  a  few 
weeks  of  Paris  when  this  fresh  exasperation  occurred  and 
detained  him.  He  felt  sure  that  she  would  not  survive 
this  relapse,  and  waited. 

But  life  gained  the  victory  once  more,  and  Dyke,  after 
a  few  words  of  cold  congratulation  to  the  wan  ghost  who 
smiled  a  feeble  glimmer  of  a  smile  when  he  entered  her 
sick-room,  told  Dora  that  the  next  day  he  must  run  away 
for  awhile  (where,  he  did  not  state),  and  that  he  had  left 
orders  at  his  banker's  to  furnish  her  with  all  she  required 
during  his  absence. 

Dora  merely  smiled  again  and  bent  her  head  in  acquies- 
cence ;  but  that  night,  in  the  temporary  absence  of  her 
nurse,  she  arose  and,  throwing  over  her  a  dressing-gown, 
glided  down-stairs  to  the  sitting-room  where  Dyke  was 
consuming  innumerable  cheroots  in  solitude. 

He  gave  a  perceptible  start  as  she  stood  suddenly  before 
him,  leaving  glided  in  unheard  in  her  velvet  chaussure, 
and  asked,  with  irritation,  "  What  under  Heaven  are  you 
about,  Dora?  Do  you  want  to  be  ill  again?  I  .should 
think  you  had  had  about  enough  of  it  by  this  time  !" 

She  sank  into  a  chair,  breathing  heavily;  presently  she 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  71 

spoke.  "Dyke,  I  came  here  because  I  could  not  sleep 
to-night  without  telling  you  what  is  tormenting  me.  I  feel 
that  you  are  not  going  away  to-morrow  for  a  few  days, — 
or  weeks.  You  have  other  plans  which  you  hide  from  me, 
but  I  do  not  care  to  know  them,  only  I  must  know  that 
which  will  affect  myself  and  my  child.  Tell  me  only  this. ' ' 
She  fixed  her  eyes,  bright  with  fever,  upon  his  face;  he 
moved  uneasily. 

"You  are  raving,  Dora,  positively  raving;  you  had 
much  better  go  back  to  bed  and  quiet  your  nerves ; 
there  is  no  reason  for  this  excitement." 

In  an  instant  she  was  close  beside  him,  looking  down 
into  his  calm  face  with  her  burning  gaze.  "  Is  this  true  ?" 
she  asked.  "  Is  there  indeed  no  reason  for  my  fears  and 
suspicions.  Have  I  been  doing  you  gross  injustice  all 
these  months?  Are  you  faithful  and  loyal  to  your  wife? 
Do  you  care  for  the  welfare  of  your  child  ?  and  am  I  mad  ? 
Have  I  not  lost  your  love,  your  protection,  the  name  you 
gave  me  in  good  faith?  Oh,  tell  me  that  it  is  the  fever  in 
my  veins  which  has  conjured  up  this  misery  !  Tell  me 
that  I  shall  awake  from  this  horrible  nightmare  in  time, 
and  feel  that  I  have  not  lost  everything!  Oh,  Dyke,  my 
heart  is  nearly  broken  ! — have  i)ity  upon  me  !"  She 
swayed  forward  and  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground  had 
she  not  caught  at  a  projection  of  the  carving  of  the  chim- 
ney-piece and  held  it  with  the  nervous  grasp  of  fever. 
Dyke  pushed  his  chair  back  impatiently,  and  laid  his  hand 
on  Dora's  shoulder,  while  he  said,  in  tones  as  cold  and 
clear  as  ice,  "During  the  five  years  of  our  acquaintance, 
Dora,  you  certainly  have  formed  some  idea  of  my  char- 
acter;  have  you  ever  seen  anything  which  would  lead  you 
to  believe  that  I  would  alter  my  intentions  or  change  my 
opinions  at  the  instance  of  any  such  tirade  as  this  with 
which  you  have  just  favored  me?"  (the  shoulder  upon  which 


72         THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

his  hand  rested  shivered  and  shrank.)  "Would  it  not 
be  far  better  for  you  to  leave  the  development  of  my 
plans  to  the  future,  and  accept  facts  as  they  stand  at 
present  ?  I  leave  you  for  a  time,  amply  provided  for,  in 
your  father's  guardianship.  I  am  tired  of  tears  and  re- 
proaches, gardc-7nalades  and  caudle.''' 

''In  sickness  or  in  health,  until  death  do  us  part," 
came  slowly,  solemnly  from  Dora's  lips;  unheeding,  he 
continued : 

"  You  can  have  every  comfort  here  :  this  is  an  excellent 

physician  ;  your  nurse  is  faithful "  he  paused  suddenly, 

for  a  ripple  of  hysterical  laughter  broke  forth,  startling 
him  far  more  than  a  burst  of  tears. 

"  Yes,"  cried  Dora,  wildly,  "  my  nurse  is  faithful  and 
my  doctor  devoted  and  death  near  at  hand ;  what  more 
can  I  desire  ?  In  a  few  short  weeks, — or  days, — all  that 
is  left  of  me  will  be  put  out  of  sight  in  a  nameless,  dis- 
honored grave,  and  you  will  be  free  once  more !  I  un- 
derstand many  things  to-night  which  have  been  mysteries 
to  me  for  years  :  why  you  have  never  acknowledged  your 
marriage  to  the  world  ;  why  you  have  hidden  me  from 
sight,  and  forbidden  me  to  wear  your  name.  But  there 
is  one  thing  which  I  cannot  yet  comprehend: — why  you 
married  me  J  Tell  me  that,  too,  that  I  may  not  have  one 
doubt  left  in  my  soul  of  your  perfidy!" 

"Why,  indeed?"  echoed  Dyke,  striding  back  and 
forth  through  the  room,  casting  his  cigar  into  the  fire. 
"  God  only  knows  !  I  suppose  most  men  make  fools  of 
themselves  once  in  their  lives;  but  it  is  the  'repenting 
at  leisure'  which  I  cannot  manage.  I  have  not  been 
brought  up  to  it,  you  see;  it  bores  me  !" 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  silence  after  these  words; 
the  candles,  with  their  wicks  grown  long,  flickered  and 
sputtered,  the  green  wood  in  the  tiny  fireplace  crackled 


THE  MILLS  OF   THE    GODS. 


73 


and  smoked — to  Dora's  eyes  the  room  grew  suddenly- 
darker,  dingier,  more  sordid  in  its  homeliness ;  the  green 
paper  on  the  Avails  looked  sicklier  than  before ;  the  black 
horse-hair  covered  furniture  more  funereal  than  ever;  the 
waxed  floor  felt  cold  and  comfortless  to  her  feet.  Her 
eyes  wandered  about  over  every  object  in  that  dreary 
room,  and  then  unconsciously  fastened  themselves  upon 
the  tall  figure  pacing  to  and  fro  at  the  extreme  end  of  it. 

He  stopped  abruptly  and  asked,  "  Why  do  you  glare  at 
me,  Dora  ?  Go  to  your  room  at  once  ;  this  comedy  is  over 
for  to-night  !"  He  approached  the  bell  to  summon  her 
maid,  but  before  he  reached  it  she  cried,  "  Stop  !  Dyke," 
she  went  on  in  a  lower  tone,  full  of  concentrated  excite- 
ment,— "Dyke,  where  is  Reginald  Trelatvney  ?  Where  is 
that  boy  that  you  have  murdered  as yo7(  will  murder  me? 
Where  have  you  hid  his  body?  tell  me;  I  w/7/know  !"  and 
she  caught  his  sleeve  with  one  thin  hand,  while  her  eyes 
blazed  into  his  with  delirium. 

"Bah!  mad  woman,"  exclaimed  Dyke,  drawing  his 
arm  away  from  her  clasp  roughly.  Again  she  swayed  for- 
ward, and,  before  he  could  catch  her,  fell  with  outstretched 
arms,  face  downward,  at  his  feet.  Dyke  lifted  her  gently, 
and  carried  her  with  swift  steps  to  the  room  above,  where 
he  laid  her  on  the  bed,  whilst  he  sharply  reprimanded  the 
alarmed  nurse  for  her  neglect  of  duty. 

All  that  night  the  doctor  hung  over  Dora's  bed  with 
hopeless  zeal ;  the  nurse,  weeping  sorely,  reproached  her- 
self bitterly  for  carelessness  ;  and  old  Mr.  Fairfax  sat 
tearless  and  stricken  in  the  little  sitting-room  below. 

W'hen  morning  dawned,  and  the  household  was  all 
astir,  the  news  sped  from  lip  to  lip — that  the  poor  young 
English  lady  was  dying. 

At  last  the  doctor  felt  it  a  duty  to  inform  Mr.  Fairfax 
that  there  was  no  longer  a  vestige  of  hope  to  cling  to: 
D  7 


74 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


life  was  ebbing  away  so  fast ;  and  the  heart-broken  father, 
mad  with  grief,  sought  Dyke's  room  with  what  frenzied 
intent  God  alone  ever  knew. 

For — the  room  was  empty ;  the  bed  had  not  been  oc- 
cupied. Inquiries  were  made,  and  then  he  learned  that 
Dora's  husband,  the  man  who  had  sworn  to  cherish  and 
protect  her  until  death  parted  them,  had  taken  post- 
horses  to  an  adjacent  town,  to  enable  him  to  catch  the 
midnight  train  to  Paris,  in  order  that  he  might  not  see 
Dora  die  ! 

The  old  man  knelt  down  beside  the  bed  where  his  dar- 
ling lay  so  white  and  still,  and  strove  not  to  curse  the 
hand  which  had  robbed  him  of  his  one  ewe-lamb — his 
little  Dora. 

"  The  light  upon  her  golden  hair, 
But  not  within  her  eyes ; 
The  light  still  there  upon  her  hair, 
The  death  upon  her  eyes." 


BOOK    II. 

DEAD-SEA    FRUITS. 


"  But  France  got  drunk  with  blood  to  vomit  crime, 
And  fatal  have  her  Saturnalia  been 
To  Freedom's  cause,  in  every  age  and  clime; 
Because  the  deadly  days  which  we  have  seen, 
And  vile  Ambition,  which  built  up  between 
Man  and  his  hopes  an  adamantine  wall, 
And  the  base  pageant  last  upon  tlie  scene 
Arc  grown  the  pretext  for  the  eternal  thrall 
Which  nips  life's  tree,  and  dooms  man's  worst — his  second  fall." 

Byron. 


CHAPTER    I. 

The  war-cry  re-echoes  throughout  the  land  !  The  first 
blow  of  the  Teuton  fist  had  been  dealt  right  vigorously,  and 
France,  the  invincible,  reeled  under  its  scientific  potency  ! 

Sedan  has  fallen;  the  emperor  is  captive;  chaos,  an- 
archy, confusion, — a  terrible  triad,. — reigns  in  his  stead. 

Gay,  beautiful,  laughter-loving  Paris,  mad  Bacchante 
that  she  was,  had  danced  and  sung  more  wildly  than  ever 
during  the  reckless  carnival  which  preceded  the  sackcloth 
and  ashes  of  this  fatar4th  September,  1870. 

For  Paris,  drunk  with  the  purple  vintages  of  years  of 
prosperous  peace,  pressed  down  and  running  over  under 

75 


76         THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

the  master-heel  of  the  man  who  had  made  her  the  idol  of 
the  world,  snapped  her  rosy  fingers  in  the  grim  face  of 
fate,  crying  gayly  {en  fringuant),  A  Berlin  !  a  Berlin  ! 

But  the  4th  September  has  dawned ;  the  thunderbolt 
has  fallen;  Paris  is  sobered  at  last!  "  Une  Madeleine 
dans  I'impuissance  de  son  pouvoir,"  she  plucks  the  fading 
garland  from  her  brow,  and  robes  herself  in  penitential 
serge,  prepared  to  eat  the  bread  mingled  with  tears,  of  a 
retributive  chastisement. 

For  over  the  field  of  Waterloo  was  drawn  the  veil  of 
Time,  and,  seen  but  dimly  by  the  eyes  besotted  by  victory 
and  vain-glory,  the  warning  written  there  in  blood  failed 
to  deter  the  grand-nephew  of  the  hero  who  paid  so  dearly 
for  his  lesson,  from  following  in  his  footsteps  in  the  lust 
of  gain.  Perhaps  the  result  of  \.\\^  plebiscite  had  unsettled 
the  brain  of  the  modern  Achilles  (whose  vulnerable  point 
lay  in  his  self-conceit),  or  he  hoped,  armed  with  this 
ostensibly-flattering  tribute  of  his  people,  by  a  brilliant 
victory  to  steady  the  fluctuating  tide  of  his  ebbing  popu- 
larity— and  so  cast  down  the  gauntlet  which  Prussia  was 
not  loth  to  take  up,  whilst  all  France  rang  with  the  bugle- 
call,  ''  To  arms  !" 

When  Brutus,  undeterred  by  C?esar's  spectral  warning, 
lay  gasping  with  spear-pierced  side  on  the  field  of  Philippi, 
he  sighed  with  his  last  breath,  "  //  is  well !'' 

But  Napoleon  III.,  free  from  other  wound  than  the 
death-blow  given  to  his  arrogance,  with  drooping  laurels 
and  lowered  crest,  in  the  retirement  of  Wilhelmshohe 
wraps  liimself  in  the  mantle  of  a  consoling  philosophy  and 
murmurs,  '■^  It  is  fate  P''  For,  like  his  ilUistrious  relative, 
he  despised  not  the  "black  art,"  and  licld  firm  faith  in 
auguries.  What  availed  example'or  warning  to  him  whose 
destiny  was  already  writ  amid  the  stars  ?  In  vain  stretched 
forth  a  prophetic  hand  from  far-off,  sad  St.  Helena,  where 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


11 


a  greater  man  had  chafed  away  life  in  bitter  anguish,  as 
he  watched  day  by  day  the 

"  Bleak  shores  beat  back 
The  ocean's  foamy  feet" — 

in  a  remorseful  solitude  !  For  about  his  forehead  also  had 
the  aureole  grown  dimmed  through  the  storm  of  fate,  and 
those  same  "rifts  within  the  lute"  oi his  great  mind,  of 
superstition,  callous  selfishness  and  vanity,  had  silenced 
all  music  in  the  sordid  soul  which  repudiated  Josephine! 
So  naught  was  left  to  either  of  these  demagogues  after 
their  worshipers  fell  off  from  their  allegiance,  but  the  fate 
of  Prometheus,  with  the  vulture  of  despair  gnawing  at 
their  vitals  until  Death,  that  ^^  iniaiiswered  Greek  questiGU,''^ 
released  them.  For  the  people  loved  them  not;  it  was 
their  prestige,  their  success,  the  glory  they  achieved 
which  created  the  nimbus  about  their  heads,  and  com- 
pelled a  worship,  a  terror,  a  fanatical  admiration  for  the 
beings  who  owned  such  gigantic  self-confidence,  such  un- 
scrupulous ambition,  such  belief  in  their  invincibility.  It 
was  Napoleonisrn  which  crossed  the  bridge  of  Lodi  ;  it 
was  Napoleonism  which  forced  the  Austrian  government 
to  sign  the  Treaty  of  Campo  Formio  by  simply  smashing 
a  priceless  porcelain  vase  during  an  audience  with  the 
ambassador,  to  emphasize  a  tlireat  as  idle  and  bombastic 
as  the  wind ;  it  was  Napoleonism  which  marched  tri- 
umphantly to  Paris  after  Elba,  which  has  carried  the  tri- 
color victoriously  over  scores  of  battle-fields,  and  which 
has  brought  weal  as  well  as  woe  to  France. 
And  these  two  men,  who  each  possessed 

"  That  mystery  of  commanding, 
That  birth-hour  gift,  that  art  Napoleon, 
Of  winning,  fettering,  wielding,  molding,  banding 
The  heart  of  millions  till  they  move  as  one," 

7* 


yg         THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

stood  at  last  stripped  of  their  laurels,  forsaken  by  their 
worshipers  ;  the  one  like  a  chained  eagle  beating  his 
wings  in  impotent  wrath  on  that  rocky,  desolate  shore, 
the  other  imprisoned  apart  from  wife  and  child,  broken 
in  health,  with  spirit  crushed,  and  the  curse  of  his  be- 
trayed people  ringing  in  his  ears  until  the  last  hour  of  his 
life! 

All  foreign  visitors  to  the  gay  capital  had  been  warned 
by  the  chiefs  of  the  various  legations  to  "flee  from  the 
wrath  to  come,"  and  in  every  direction  people  were  flitting, 
some  gayly,  carelessly,  taking  no  thought  for  the  morrow, 
or  what  that  morrow  might  bring  forth  for  the  fair  city 
which  even  then  had  something  tragic  in  her  smile;  others 
slowly  and  sadly  departed,  bearing  their  Lares  and  Pe- 
nates they  scarcely  knew  whither.  English  men  and 
women  were  turning  joyfully  homeward,  glad  to  ht  forced 
back  to  something  like  comfort  and  respectability.  Amer- 
icans, with  many  a  backward,  tearful  glance  at  the  daz- 
zling Danae,  whom  that  millinery-loving  people  grow  fond 
of  contemplating  through  a  golden  shower,  embarked 
sorrowfully  for  those  benighted  lands  where  the  indigenous 
heathen  invest  not  their  "  wampum"  in  the  vagaries  of 
Monsieur  Worth,  and  bow  not  the  knee  to  Pingat.  Fare- 
well to  thee,  beloved,  lotus-eating  Paris  !  to  thy  wealth 
of  art,  of  taste,  of  luxur\-,  thy  Longchamps  toilettes,  and 
thy  savory  flesh-pots ;  thine  adorers  must  hie  them  away 
to  the  Western  world,  lest  they  be  crushed  in  thy  fall ;  but 
rest  assured,  never  shall  they  cover  their  chignons  with  a 
home-made  bonnet,  or  croquer  line  praline,  without  a  retro- 
spective sigh  for  the  beguiling  city  whose  glory  has  de- 
parted;  and  verily,  if  there  is  possible  constancy  in  the 
feminine  heart,  they  will  never  cease  to  mourn  that  there 
should  be  a  limit,  not  to  dynasties,  or  to  the  ambition  of 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE   GODS.  79 

a  Napoleon,  but  to  the  capacity  of  that  ship's  hold  which 
carried  their  luggage  safely  over. 

Alas  for  the  sluggard  who  procrastinated  his  visit  to 
Paris  during  her  palmy  days,  the  days  of  the  luxurious 
empire  and  of  the  gracious  Eugenie! 

Of  the  "cakes  and  ale"  of  futurity  there  may  be  no 
scant  measure,  but  to  the  palates  grown  used  to  their 
flavor  in  those  gala-days  of  prosperity  they  will  be  flat 
and  savorless  for  evermore. 

Surely  when  the  flames  died  out,  and  the  smoke  cleared 
away  from  the  plains  of  Sodom,  there  were  few  hearts- 
stout  enough  to  build  upon  the  site  of  the  scourged  city 
another  such  monument  to  commemorate  the  vices  of 
man. 

Already  the  "abomination  of  desolation"  was  marking 
the  deserted  boulevards,  the  empty  shops,  the  half-filled 
theatres,  and  the  anxious  faces  gathered  about  the  doors 
of  the  cafes,  where  usually  one  or  more  red-capped 
patriots  harangued  their  fellows  with  an  eloquence  born 
of  idleness  and  absinthe.  A  few  foreigners  still  lingered, 
from  interest  or  expediency,  or — because  life  bored  them  ; 
the  curtain  was  about  to  roll  up,  and  the  play  to  begin. 
Why  should  one  not  remain  and  criticise  from  before  the 
footlights  this  "piece"  which  France  had  determined  to 
exhibit  to  the  gaping  audience  of  the  world? — this  bloody 
tragedy  ending  in  the  pitiful  farce,  of  which  Paris  and  its 
environs  are  the  old  stock  mise  en  scene. 

It  was  not  an  every-day  experience  this,  in  the  calmly- 
ordered,  geometrically-measured  humdrummery  of  the 
lives  of  those  loungers  whose  spice  of  life  had  lost  its  pun- 
gency ;  and  since  the  beginning  of  all  things,  pity  for 
others'  woes  has  never  been  known  to  bleach  the  hair 
white,  nor  write  itself  in  legible  lines  upon  the  human 
countenance. 


8o         THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

Wherefore  then  should  we  avert  our  eyes  from  the 
sight  of  France  in  her  despair?  The  sight  of  a  queen  de- 
throned and  dragged  through  the  mire  of  her  own  selfish- 
ness and  rapacity,  must  always  have  something  of  dramatic 
eclat  to  interest  one  ;  and  the  sad  mockery  of  a  disheveled, 
mud-bespattered  goddess  of  Liberty,  with  tears  of  blood 
upon  her  famine-wasted  cheek,  striving  to  cover  with  the 
folds  of  the  drapeau  rouge  the  rags  of  the  ermine  her  rival 
wore  right  royally  but  yesterday,  has  a  unique  attraction 
for  the  spectator  ! 

•  Poor  prodigal  Paris  !  Will  she  emerge  from  this  trial 
by  fire,  and  sword,  and  famine,  after  aching  and  groan- 
ing and  being  glad  to  fill  herself  with  the  swine-rejected 
husks,  repentant,  humbled,  purified?  And  shall  not  all 
the  nations,  seeing  her  afar  off,  fall  on  her  neck  and  kiss 
her  with  the  kiss  of  a  loving  compassion  ?  .  .  .  Who  shall 
answer?  The  grooves  in  which  Paris  ran  so  smoothly  to 
destruction  were  deep,  and  velvet-lined.  Would  it  be 
surprising  that  after  a  trial  of  the  flint  road  of  self-sacri- 
fice she  should,  after  a  season,  begin  to  slide  gently  back 
into  those  seductive  furrows?  Let  not  the  fatted  calf 
be  prematurely  killed. 


CHAPTER     IL 


In  a  luxurious  appartemetit  an  premier  on  the  Rue 
Royale,  Dyke  Faucett  lounged  at  mid-day  over  a  scarcely- 
tasted  breakfast,  glancing  idly  over  the  Figaro  and  the 
Journal  Officiel,  each  charged  with  the  electricity  of  the 
coming  storm. 

Six  months  had  passed  since  that  night  when  the  net 
had  been  so  tightly  drawn  a])out  liini  that  he  began  to 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  8 1 

doubt  the  possibility  of  ever  being  free  again — the  night 
in  Tours,  when  he  had  lifted  the  insensible  form  of  his 
wife,  who,  driven  mad  at  last  by  his  cold,  cruel  treachery, 
had  so  poured  out  upon  him  the  pent-up  vials  of  reproach- 
ful bitterness,  and  when  he  had  felt  convinced  that  no 
other  resource  remained  to  him — but  flight. 

Six  months  spent  in  Paris,  in  those  dear,  delightful 
haunts  of  former  bachelor-days  (only  excepting  a  few 
weeks  when  the  heat  of  mid-summer  had  driven  him  under 
the  cool  shadow  of  the  Jungfrau).  Six  months,  during 
which  he  logically  reasoned  himself  free — free  from  the* 
woman  whose  bloom  had  faded  under  the  withering  frost 
of  his  neglect,  whose  moral  rectitude  and  pure  soul  had  for 
him  the  monotonous  aspect  and  blank  vapidity  of  a  sheet  of 
white  paper; — for,  after  the  scales  fell  from  her  eyes  and 
she  realized  for  what  manner  of  man  she  had  sold  her 
birthright  of  freedom  and  the  power  to  live  her  life  out 
to  its  grandest  proportions,  Dora  failed  undeniably  in 
supplying  that  piquant  incense  which  her  first  idolatrous 
devotion  had  furnished  his  unsated  vanity.  And  now  he 
was  once  more  free  ! 

Free  from  the  mute  reproach  of  her  white  face  and 
heavy-shaded  eyes  (for  she  had  not  rated  him  with  the  vi- 
tuperative eloquence  of  a  discarded  shrew,  or  treated  him 
to  the  hysterical  paroxysms  of  a  brainless  idiot  ;  he  must 
do  her  that  justice); — free  from  the  incubus  of  a  doting 
father-in-law,  who,  of  late,  had  been  continually  trying  to 
button-hole  him  into  a  confession  of  his  intentions  in 
regard  to  his  darling  child. 

Free  to  loiter  in  the  boudoir  of  the  Marquise  de  Cour- 
boisie,  who  had  so  gained  in  bloom  and  curve,  and  had 
reigned  in  the  choicest  circles  of  Roman  society  that  last 
winter,  an  acknowledged  queen;  free  to  divide  his  alle- 
giance to  her,  if  he  so  minded,  with  the  great  singer  of 


82  THE   MILLS   OF  TLIE    GODS. 

the  day  or  with  any  coryphee  of  the  ballet  who  happened 
to  charm  his  eye  for  the  moment,  without  being  called  to 
account,  or  having  his  slumbers  disturbed  by  the  sound 
of  suppressed  weeping. 

Free  some  day, — in  the  far-off  future, — when  the  savor 
has  gone  out  of  everything,  when  he  has  come  into  pos- 
session of  the  estate  of  EUingham,  and  an  heir  would  be 
desirable, — to  choose  in  the  choicest  pasture  of  the  sweet 
English  "garden  of  girls"  one  fit  to  be  his  bride,  one  in 
whom  beauty,  rank,  intelligence,  and  fortune  should 
'combine  to  make  a  creature  worthy  of  so  noble  a  mate. 

For  Dora  must  be  dead;  perhaps  even  in  that  moment 
when  she  had  fallen  at  his  feet,  with  a  last  despairing  cry, 
her  heart  may  have  ceased  to  beat  !  And  even  had  this 
not  been  so,  the  shock  which  greeted  her  return  to  con- 
sciousness— of  his  entire  abandonment  of  her  and  the 
<hild — would,  without  doubt,  have  snapped  the  frail 
thread  of  life  ! 

How  else  construe  their  silence?  The  fact  of  his 
banker's  assurance  that  no  demand  had  been  made  upon 
the  allowance  awarded  them,  and  the  additional  informa- 
tion that  no  one  had  called  to  make  inquiries  for  Mr. 
Faucett's  present  address,  all  gave  solidity  to  his  conclu- 
sions. Yes,  Dora  was  certainly  dead  ;  and  Mr.  Fairfax 
was  trop  gentilhomme  to  touch  another  penny  of  lier 
destroyer's  money. 

When  we  wish  ardently  that  a  certain  thing  should  be, 
are  we  not  apt  in  the  end  to  believe  that  it  really  is  ? 
And  how  often  is  our  belief,  our  judgment,  and  our  taste 
bolstered  up  or  alloyed  by  the  "trifles  light  as  air"  of 
circumstance  or  the  opinions  of  others  ?  We  bow  to 
hyperbole  and  the  "vox  populi"  ! 

Do  we  not  all  go  to  Rome  and  yield  up  a  devout  admi- 
ration to  the  ox-eyed,  small-mouthed  Raphaelized  conccp- 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  83 

tion  of  the  Virgin  Mother,  knowing  all  the  while  that  we 
each  hold  in  our  hearts  a  fairer  ideal  of  sad,  awe-shadowed 
loveliness,  with  a  suggestion  of  the  coming  anguish  seen 
dimly  through  the  present  glory,  without  that  eternal 
simper  which  fits  the  lips  of  flie  baker  s  daughter,  or  the 
plummet-line  of  exact  regularity  of  feature?  (Was  Mrs. 
Browning  ever  satisfied  with  the  Madonna  of  the  galleries, 
I  wonder?  Her  great  poetic  soul  could  not  warp  itself 
to  the  meanness  and  narrowness  of  this  art-apostasy  which 
would  sacrifice  her  dear,  heaven-born  conceptions  to  the 
autocratic,  well-thumbed  opinions  of — the  guide-books 
and  the  marginal  platitudes  of  the  ubiquitous  tourist  !) 
Oh,  that  bete  noir  oi  the  art-lover,  the  tourist!  When  a 
passage  can  be  taken  to  the  moon,  shall  we  not  strive  to 
emulate  Americus  Vespucius,  that  we  may  travel  once,  at 
least,  without  the  restricting  Murray  or  the  didactic  Brad- 
shaw,  and  form  our  o%vn  conclusions,  untrammeled  by  the 
friendly  tourist — on  the  lunar  wonders? 

In  the  mean  time  we  shall  continue  to  ejaculate,  with 
mechanical  precision,  "how  wonderful !"  "how  beauti- 
ful!" "how  exquisitely  proportioned  !"  wliether  we  gaze 
at  the  Venus  of  Medicis  or  the  leaning  tower  at  Pisa! 
Although  we  continue  to  prefer,  in  the  silent  recesses 
of  our  souls,  to  the  finely-calculated,  classic  measure- 
ments of  the  former,  that  mutilated  fragment  of  Milo, 
which  touches  us  more  naturally  and  deeply,  perhaps, 
because  of  its  marred  perfection  !  and  see  in  that  hair- 
breadth-escape-looking tower  nothing  but  a  monstrously 
ugly  index  of  the  moral  obliquity  of  the  people  over 
whom  it  leans  threateningly. 

For  we  belong  to  that  well-brought-up  class  whose  ideas 
are  tauglit  to  run  in  grooves — to  that  class  which  never 
raises  its  glass  to  its  eye  to  see  anything  hung  above  its  own 
level! — whose  religion  is  bounded  by  "  Burke's  Peerage" 


84         THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

on  the  north  and  the  '' Landed  Gentry"  on  the  south,  on 
the  east  by  the  opinions  of  Her  Grace,  and  by  His  Lord- 
ship the  Bishop  on  the  last  remaining  avenue  of  escape  ! 
The  class  which  dares  not  admire  a  sunset  by  Millais 
without  the  authority  of  a  titled  precedent !  or  a  moon- 
rise  by — the.  hand  of  God, — because  enthusiasm  is  vulgar 
and  Nature  commonplace  ! 

Yes,  to  my  unutterable  grief  I  confess  it,  our  ancestors 
existed  long  before  William  of  Normandy  was  thought 
of,  and  in  the  crime  de  la  crane  we  exist  like  fies  in 
amber  I 

And  why  should  we  grieve  ?  you  ask  ;  why  should  we 
not  be  content  in  this  sea  of  golden  transparency? 

Because — we  want  to  buzz  ! 

When,  forsooth,  we  gather  up  our  velvet  skirts  for  fear 
they  brush  the  faded  finery  of  the  mendicant  Magdalen 
at  our  carriage-door,  and  seat  ourselves  by  the  side  of 
the  gorgeous,  "dear  creature"  of  a  duchess  who  has  not 
been  "sans  reproche'"  (though  assuredly  '^  sans  peur'''^ 
since  her  infancy,  we  dare  not  cry  out  against  the  injustice 
of  things,  but  must  e'en  stifle  our  remonstrances  and  clog 
our  wings  in  that  yellow  sea  of  inanity ! 

But  all  this  is  not  interesting  to  you,  dear  reader. 
Pardon  me  !  Even  if  it  were,  by  chance,  would  it  not  be 
vain  to  attempt  to  solve  the  psychological  puzzles  which 
madden  one,  in  a  digression  which  must  ha  thoughtful, — 
and  therefore  as  inadmissible  in  a  novel  as  in  the  perfumed 
atmosphere  of  your  ladyship's  boudoir? 

"  Yes;  I  shall  certainly  stay  and  see  the  game  played 
out,"  concluded  Dyke  Faucett,  after  pondering  the  matter 
over  during  the  space  of  half  an  hour.  "  There  is  nothing 
doing  in  England  just  now,  and  Pauline  is  certainly  charm- 
ing." So  resolving,  he  drew  towards  him  a  pile  of  letters 
and  dainty  notes,  which  lay  upon  a  salver  close  at  hand, 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  85 

and,  selecting  one  written  on  large  paper,  sealed  with  wax 

bearing  a  coat  of  arms,  in  the  good  old-fashioned  style 

before  the  vulgar  days  of  self-sealing  envelopes,  he  leisurely 

opened  and  perused  it. 

"  Ellingham,  Sept.  2,  1870. 

"My  dear  Dyke, — It  appears  that  France  is  determined 
to  make  a  fool  of  herself,  as  usual ;  and  from  last  accounts, 
we  understand  that  before  many  days  it  is  apprehended 
that  Paris  will  be  in  a  state  of  siege. 

"Under  these  circumstances,  knowing  well  how  averse 
you  are  to  privation  of  every  description,  and  how  more 
than  ordinarily  unpleasant  that  city  will  become,  I  feel 
no  hesitation  in  urging  your  return  to  your  native  land, 
which,  during  the  last  ten  years,  you  have  almost  forsaken. 

"When  three  years  had  expired,  which  you  considered 
necessary  to  spend  in  travel  for  the  purpose  of  perfecting 
yourself  in  foreign  languages,  and  obtaining  that  polish 
which  the  gentlemen  of  my  day  were  able  to  acquire  at 
home,  I  had  hoped  that  you  would  be  content  to  settle 
down  and  take  to  yourself  a  fair  English  wife  ;  that  I 
might  not  spend  the  remnant  of  my  days  in  solitude,  and 
that  I  might  welcome  a  boy  of  yours  in  the  old  place  be- 
fore I  went  away  forever.  But  after  a  hasty  visit,  you  have 
contrived  upon  one  pretext  or  another  to  cut  England 
almost  entirely.  It  may  be  that  I  erred  in  a  too  lavish 
indulgence  towards  you  in  your  boyhood,  when  you  came 
to  gladden  my  lonely  hearth,  and  so  fostered  in  you  that 
germ  of  selfishness  which  is  inherent  in  all  human  nature. 

"  However,  I  have  no  desire  to  reproach  you,  my  dear 
boy,  and  will  simply  add  that  you  have  now  an  oppor- 
tunity of  proving  the  gratitude  and  affection  of  which  you 
have  often  feelingly  written  to  me.  Come  home  ;  give 
up  this  Bohemian  wandering  ;  marry  and  be  respectable. 
It  is  quite  time,  and  you  know  my  unconquerable  aversion 

8 


86       *  THE  MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 

to  foreigners.  Take  these  suggestions  into  consideration, 
knowing  that  I  have  rarely  made  a  request  of  you,  and 
will  not,  in  this  case,  he  likely  to  pardon  a  refusal. 

"Very  affectionately  yours, 

"Philip  Standley." 

Over  the  blonde,  impassive  beauty  of  Dyke  Faucett's 
face  a  scowl  settled  loweringly,  as  he  brooded  with  ever- 
increasing  displeasure  over  this  letter,  which  recalled  him 
to  England  at  the  moment  when  Paris  began  to  be  inter- 
esting to  him.  His  will,  for  once,  must  bend  to  that  of 
another;  the  meaning  of  those  last  itw  quiet  lines  he  well 
understood.  Between  himself  and  those  vast  possessions 
stood  a  life, — not  a  very  vigorous  one,  to  be  sure,  but 
which  held  fire  enough  still  to  resent  ingratitude  and  dis- 
obedience, and  he  was  not  even  heir-presumptive.  To 
understand  fully  the  position,  we  must  go  back  some  forty 
years. 

Sir  Philip  Standley,  the  only  surviving  member  of  a 
good  old  Kentish  family,  had  loved,  "  not  wisely,  but  too 
well,"  a  woman  whose  heart  and  mind  gave  the  lie  to  the 
fairest  face  that  ever  smiled  sweetly  in  assumed  innocence, 
as  she  dealt  the  death-blow  to  the  dearest  hopes  of  a  man's 
whole  future  life. 

In  these  moral  murders,  which,  since  the  days  of  Delilah, 
have  brought  worse  than  blindness  upon  men,  by  the  subtle 
sophistry  of  a  woman's  reasoning,  she  exculpates  herself 
in  a  way  which  cannot  but  excite  our  admiration,  if  not 
our  unequivocal  concurrence. 

That  she  foresees  the  conclusions  a  man  forms  upon  the 
ground  of  blushes  and  sighs,  half-averted  looks,  and  low- 
toned  whispers,  she  denies;  that  she  can  hold  in  thrall  with 
soft  glances  and  softer  hand-pressure  a  dozen  men  about 
her  footstool,  while  over  their  heads  she  shoots  far  and 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  87 

away  arrows  of  deadlier  aim,  drawn  from  the  quiver  of 
the  heart, — she  claims  as  one  of  the  prerogatives  of  her 
sex. 

Is  it  not  always  thus? 

Out  of  the  shadows  of  past  ages,  are  the  names  which 
stand  glorified  immortally,  crowned  with  great  men's  love, 
the  purest,  the  noblest,  or  the  l^csf  ?  Is  Trojan  Helen,  or 
the  swarthy  enchantress  of  the  Nile,  or  even  the  self-abne- 
gating Helo'ise,  the  type  of  what  should  be  God's  last, 
best  gift  to  man?  Alas!  since  the  Philistines  fell  upon 
betrayed  Samson, — since  the  fiery  sword  barred  the  gates 
of  Eden, — have  not  the  desire  of  the  eye  and  the  lust  of 
the  flesh  waged  ceaseless  war  against  the  higher  aspirations 
of  our  very  human  nature  ? 

There  was  no  repulsive  glitter  of  steel  about  the  Ift/re 
de  cachet  (that  dread  weapon  of  the  Inquisition  and  the 
"  Reign  of  Terror")  ;  no  blood-marks  stained  its  fair  sur- 
face, yet  it  did  its  murderous  work  swiftly  and  silently, 
and  very  surely.  In  the  silence  of  night  the  waters 
opened,  and  closed  over  the  victim's  head,  and  the  sleep- 
ing world  recked  not  that  the  light  of  another  life  had 
gone  out  forever. 

On  tlie  day  when  Constance  Dyke,  feeling  the  catas- 
trophe of  a  projjosal,  which  she  could  not  accept,  to  be 
imminent,  breathed  into  the  ear  of  the  man  whom  she 
had  beguiled  through  many  months  of  dalliance  into 
loving  her,  the  fact  that  she  had  been  affianced  for  three 
years  to  a  young  lieutenant  then  on  foreign  service,  she 
killed  at  a  blow  all  future  possibility  of  trusting  love,  in 
the  heart  of  Philip  Standley. 

He  ditl  not  turn  cynic  and  Avax  bitter  against  all  his 
kind  ;  his  nature  was  too  sweet  at  the  core  for  that ;  he  not 
only  loved  her  to  the  last  day  of  her  life,  but  he  formed 
a  warm  friendship  for  the  gallant  young  officer,  who,  as 


88  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

soon  as  he  had  won  his  epaulettes,  came  home  and 
claimed  his  bride.     • 

Only,  the  first  fruits  of  his  heart  had  been  gathered,  and 
never  again  did  bud  or  blossom  bloom  into  promise  where 
the  lightning  had  fallen  scathingly. 

During  six  years  of  happy  married  life,  Constance  Fau- 
cett  learned  to  value  thoroughly  the  noble  nature  of  the 
man  whom  she  had  unwittingly  (?)  injured;  for,  although 
the  wound  had  never  once  been  laid  bare  to  her  eyes,  by 
the  aid  of  that  sixth  sense  with  which  a  woman  learns  when 
a  man  loves  her  she  guessed  the  existence  of  a  scar.  And 
when,  in  the  last  hour,  they  stood  beside  her,  the  devoted 
husband  and  the  true  friend,  it  would  be  difficult  to  de- 
termine which  man's  heart  was  more  bitterly  wrung,  or  to 
which  the  beautiful  eyes,  fast  glazing  in  death,  bade  the 
tenderer  farewell. 

There  seemed  to  be  need  for  few  last  words  between  the 
two  men,  after  the  green  sod  had  been  laid  over  what  they 
loved  best  on  earth ;  and  for  Captain  Faucett  to  go  out 
at  once  with  his  regiment  to  active  service,  and  for  Sir 
Philip  to  take  to  his  aching  heart  the  motherless  boy, 
seemed  the  only  possible  way  to  make  each  man's  life 
endurable. 

In  the  strong  hand-clasp  and  steady  look  into  each 
other's  eyes,  as  they  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer 
which  was  to  bear  one  of  them  away  to  danger,  possibly 
to  death,  there  was  an  eloquence  born  of  strong  emotion. 
They  parted  silently;  and  when,  after  awhile,  the  news 
came  home  that  Lionel  Faucett  had  fallen  at  the  head  of 
his  regiment,  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight  in  the  Indian 
mutiny  of  that  year,  no  one  grieved  for  the  strong,  brave 
life  so  suddenly  stricken  down,  more  deeply  than  the  man 
whose  rival  he  had  been. 

Throughout  the  childhood  of  the  spirited  boy,  who  had 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


89 


inherited  the  fatal  gift  of  his  mother's  beauty ;  through 
the  boisterous  Eton  holidays,  when  the  irrepressible  glee 
of  a  perfectly  healthy  boy,  who  feared  no  reprimand,  how- 
ever demonstrative  he  became,  made  the  old  Hall  ring 
again,  where  the  echoes  had  been  silent  for  more  than 
forty  years.  Sir  Philip  found  unceasing  pleasure  and 
solace  for  his  lonely  hours.  Through  his  Oxford  career, 
as  well,  he  had  watched  the  son  of  his  dead  love  with 
unabated  interest  and  affection  ;  and,  when  he  returned 
after  graduating, — not  without  honor, — a  remarkably  fine 
specimen  of  manly  beauty.  Sir  Philip's  admiration  and 
pride  knew  no  bounds. 

He  consented  readily  to  the  grand  tour  which  was 
deemed  de  rigueur  to  "finish"  a  man's  perfections,  but 
rebelled  in  spirit  when  he  found  that  his  protege  had 
become  a  victim  to  the  travel-mania  of  the  day,  and 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  pitch  his  tent  on  his  native  soil 
for  more  than  a  month  or  two  during  the  hunting  season, 
or  a  fortnight  of  town  in  June. 

It  was  a  grievous  disappointment  to  the  old  gentleman, 
who,  perhaps,  might  be  excused  for  believing  in  the 
existence  of  gratitude  won  by  such  boundless  kindness, — 
for  he  was  a  true-hearted  man  himself,  and  trusted  with 
the  charity  which  '*  hopeth  all  things"  in  the  sincerity  of 
others'  professions. 

And  Dyke  was  invariably  courteous  and  affectionate,  in 
an  indolent,  graceful  way,  treating  his  guardian  with  a 
deference  which,  while  it  partook  of  sycophancy,  had 
nothing  of  its  cringing  manner;  and,  during  his  brief 
sojourn  at  home,  he  managed  so  to  fascinate  the  kind  old 
gentleman,  that  it  was  not  difficult  to  win  his  consent  to 
another  prolonged  Continental  visit. 

The  possibility  of  Dyke's  having  deceived  him,  that  it 
was  something  more  than  the  excitement  of  foreign  travel 

8* 


90 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE   GODS. 


which  lured  him,  time  after  time,  back  to  the  other  side 
of  the  Channel,  never  crossed  Sir  Philip's  mind. 

That  a  man  could  be  so  base  as  to  requite  unwavering 
kindness  and  liberality  by  deception,  or  to  abuse  the  unre- 
strained liberty  awarded  him  in  an  implicit  confidence  by 
the  treacherous  acted  lie  of  years,  he  could  have  believed 
possible  in  a  romance  or  a  newspaper,  but  never  in  the 
heart  and  mind  of  the  son  of  the  woman  he  had  loved. 

For  Sir  Philip  Standley  was  a  man  of  a  clear  and  upright 
nature  and  the  kindliest  feelings.  Simplicity,  frankness, 
and  integrity  of  principle  were  his  prominent  traits.  In 
politics,  he  was  an  honest  and  inflexible  conservative ;  in 
social  life,  a  genial  and  hospitable  host,  a  promoter  of  all 
good  works,  a  whole-souled  dispenser  of  charities,  a  man 
of  a  too  generous  nature  to  be  suspicious  of  evil. 

But  now,  looking  out  over  the  troubled  aspect  of  things 
in  France  from  the  quiet  retirement  of  his  country  home, 
noting  with  the  wondering  eye  of  an  Englishman,  to  whom 
such  mad  folly  as  threatened  that  fair  land  with  destruction 
seemed  incredible.  Sir  Philip  felt  the  time  had  come  when 
Dyke  might  be  safely  recalled  to  home  duties  at  last. 

"Surely  he  must  have  grown  weary  of  this  incessant 
knocking  about  the  world, — satiated  with  pleasure,  tired 
of  the  unending  round  of  excitement  and  variety  of  his 
restless  life.  It  is  lime  he  should  marry.  I  wonder  he 
never  thinks  of  that ;  and  I  should  be  glad  to  resign  my 
seat  in  Parliament  to  him.  For  I  am  growing  old, — yes, 
seventy  years  is  the  allotted  time, — and  I  may  go  to  my 
darling  soon  now,  very  soon."  And  on  the  old  man's 
face,  as  he  thus  ruminated,  broke  forth  a  smile  of  joyful 
anticipation,  which  lit  up  his  fine  hazel  eyes  with  a  happy 
light,  which  was  as  radiant  as  any  gleam  of  youth. 

And  then,  having  written  his  letter  of  summons  to 
Dyke,  he  carried  his  Times  out  on  the  velvet  lawn  to  his 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


91 


favorite  seat  under  the  grand  old  cedars,  and  plunged  into 
a  fresh  recital  of  the  horrors  which  over-shadowed  the 
French  nation,  from  an  Englishman's  point  of  view. 

The  facts  were  not  more  garbled  than  might  have  been 
expected.  The  fall  of  Sedan,  the  capture  of  the  Emperor, 
were  supplemented  by  other  reverses  which  had  not  yet 
befallen  the  doomed  people;  and  the  escape  of  the  Em- 
press, in  male  attire,  was  aunounced  prematurely,  as  well 
as  the  death  of  the  Imperial  Prince.  Enthusiastic  were 
the  accounts  of  MacMahon's  glorious  death  on  the  field 
of  battle,  whilst  that  wily  son  of  the  Irish  kings,  wounded 
only  slightly  in  the  thigh,  was  quietly  nursing  his  oppor- 
tune scratch,  in  strict  seclusion,  waiting  for  better  days  ! 

That  poor  General  Wimpffen  was  obliged  to  shoulder 
the  responsibility  of  defeat  at  Sedan,  and,  cruslied  by  the 
execrations  and  reproaches  of  the  nation,  resigned  his 
sword,  smarting  under  unmerited  disgrace,  did  in  nowise 
disturb  the  equanimity  with  which  the  "late  lamented 
hero"  hearkened  to  the  paean  of  praise  which  sounded 
throughout  the  country  in  his  honor. 

I  doubt  if,  even  in  that  proudest  hour  of  his  triumph, 
when  President  Marshal  MaclVIahon,  in  the  grand  chapel 
of  Versailles,   robed  in  gorgeous  attire,   crimson,  violet, 
and  gold,  amid  an  assemblage  of  ministers  of  war,  of  the 
marine,  of  foreign  affairs ;   of  ofificers  in  gold  lace,  and 
bedecked  and  bejeweled  women  (the  ^/z'/d"  of  the  peerage); 
while   priests   in  superb  vestments  swarmed  about  him, 
some  of  whom  he  crowned  with  the  scarlet  hat  of  the  car- 
dinal, under  the  direction  of  the  Pope  of  Rome  ; — I  doubt 
if,  even  in  that  moment,  a  thought  of  poor  Wimpffen's  fate 
crossed  the  mind  dazed  by  the  smile  from  the  Vatican, 
intoxicated  with  the  adulation  of  the  people,  who  but  for 
that  fragment  of  shell  would  have  held  him  accursed!    And 
we  scoff  dXfate  I 


92         THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

That  timely  wound  just  saved  the  quick-witted  soldier 
from  delivering  up  the  sword  which  he  had  carried  on  a 
score  of  battle-fields,  and  following  the  lead  of  his  sovereign 
to  Wilhelmshohe  ;  saved  him  from  a  like  obloquy  and  con- 
demnation to  become  the  instrument  for  restoring  peace, 
order,  property,  in  the  second  siege  of  Paris.  Later,  when 
a  seven-years'  dictatorship  was  conferred  upon  him  and  he 
held  in  his  hand  the  destinies  of  thirty-eight  millions  of 
Frenchmen,  he  blessed  the  wound  which  laid  him  low  at 
Sedan  and  shielded  him  from  an  odium  worse  than  death  ! 

^^ Le  roi  est  mort ;  vive  le  roi  f  thought  Sir  Philip,  as 
he  concluded  the  various  articles  translated  from  French 
journals  and  the  editorial  in  the  Times,  all  bearing  upon 
the  disasters  of  their  neighbors  across  the  Channel.  "The 
French  must  always  have  something  to  madden  themselves 
about,  and  now  it  is  ^liberie,  egalite,  fraternite,' — three 
hoots  of  the  night-owl  which  have  never  boded  aught  but 
evil  to  France.  Down  with  the  Empire  !  up  with  the  mob  ! 
What  a  country  it  is  to  be  sure  !"  And  he  looked  out  over 
the  fair  fields  of  grain  and  soft  emerald-green  turf,  stretch- 
ing for  miles  in  peaceful  beauty  below  him,  and  thanked 
God  he  was  born  an  Englishman  ! 

The  worn-out  hackneyism  that  no  two  nations  are  so  dis- 
similar as  the  Saxon  and  the  Gaul  of  to-day  requires  no 
astuteness  to  discover  its  veracity;  but  during  this  last 
frenzied  struggle,  during  the  maniacal,  suicidal  crisis  of 
the  Commune,  England  stood  aghast,  looking  on  with  un- 
comprehending horror  at  a  display  of  passion  and  reck- 
lessness for  which  her  phlegmatic  temperament  held  un- 
bounded contempt.  Alas  !  the  fair  lilies  of  France  have 
been  smirched  more  than  once  by  the  fierce  hands  of  this 
hot-headed  rabble  ! 

The  shadows  were  lengthening  when  Sir  Philip,  after  a 
solitary  ramble  through  the  park  (during  which  he  had 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 


93 


Stopped  to  inquire  for  a  disabled  game-keeper  who-' had 
been  ill  for  some  weeks,  and  to  say  a  kindly  word  to  eacl^ 
gardener  or  dependent  whom  he  chanced  to  meet;  failing 
not  to  stroke  the  yellow  curls  of  the  gate-keeper's  little 
one  as  he  passed  the  lodge),  re-entered  his  comfortable 
home,  greeting  all  about,  only  servants  though  they  were, 
with  his  genial  smile,  as  was  his  custom. 

And  this  is  the  man  who  has  loved  and  trusted  Dyke 
Faucett ;  this  man  with  his  large,  benevolent  soul, 

"  Whose  nature  is  so  far  from  doing  harm 
That  he  suspects  none." 

Alas !  if  he  could  look  into  the  heart  of  this  moody 
Dyke,  whom  we  have  left  so  long  chewing  the  cud  of  his 
rebellious  reflections  !  Would  his  faith  in  human  nature 
ever  recover  its  equilibrium? 

So  profound  is  Dyke's  reverie  that  he  does  not  hear  the 
smooth  tones  of  poor  Giles's  successor,  who  announces  a 
visitor  and  then  stands  motionless. 

"Shall  I  show  her  up,  sir?"  he  ventures  at  last,  in  de- 
spair of  attracting  his  master's  attention  by  the  slight 
cough  with  which  he  has  endeavored  to  arouse  it. 

"Show  her  up?     Who?     What?     Yes,  certainly ;  and 

"     Recovering  his  customary  sang-froid  and  languid 

drawl :  "  Simpson,  take  away  these  things."  He  pointed 
to  the  elaborate  gold  and  silver  service  which  held  his 
unfinished  breakfast.  In  a  trice  the  dexterous  servant  had 
removed  the  tray,  placed  the  still  unread  letters  on  the 
table  before  his  master,  and  disappeared. 

"Confoundedly  early  hour  to  make  a  visit,"  muttered 
Dyke,  as  he  glanced  complacently  in  a  mirror  opposite 
and  arranged  a  straggling  lock  of  the  chestnut  hair  which 
had  a  way  of  becoming  ruffled  in  his  meditative  moods. 
"  Can  Pauline  be  so  imprudent  ?     These  Frenchwomen 


94         THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

are  so  impulsive  !  I  wonder  how  she  will  take  the  news  of 
my  departure ?  Ah,  ' che  sara,  sara^'^  he  sighed,  im- 
patiently, "I  am  to  go  back  to  England,  to  orthodox 
respectability,  and — to  wedlock  ;    no,  not  that;  I  cannot 

marry,  unless,   indeed Good   God  !     Dora !     You 

here!"  He  started  back,  with  face  blanched  and  eyes 
distended,  as  through  the  velvet /^r//V;r  passed  the  fragile 
figure  of  a  woman,  clothed  quietly  in  some  dark  stuff  and 
with  her  veil  thrown  back. 

Had  a  ghost  suddenly  arisen  to  confront  him,  Faucett 
could  not  have  been  more  utterly  amazed,  so  firmly  had 
the  idea  of  her  death  obtained  possession  in  his  mind. 

Dora,  seeming  scarcely  to   observe  his  agitation,  ap- 

V.  proached  the  table,  and,  taking  up  one  of  the  letters  from 

the  pile  lying  there,  said,  in  a  low,  sad  voice,  "So  you 

have  not  read  my  letter,  Dyke ;  you  did  not  expect  me, 

then?" 

He  wheeled  forward  s.fatitcuil  for  her  before  he  replied, 
in  his  usual  tones,  "Expect  you?  No.  How  should  I 
expect  you — here?'' 

"And  yet,"  she  replied,  "I  am  here.  Strange,  is  it 
not,  that  the  woman  you  left  for  dead, — the  woman  you 
hoped  would  die, — yes,  Dyke"  (as  he  waved  his  hand  im- 
patiently),— "there  must  be  no  moredissimulation  between 
us, — the  woman  you  hoped wo\\\(\.  die  has  conquered  death 
and  distance,  and  obstacles  of  all  kinds,  and — and  herself? 
Not  for  your  sake.  Dyke,  nor  for  the  hope  of  any  possible 
happiness  between  us  in  the  future,  but  for  our  child's 
sake;  and  for  her  sake" — she  drew  herself  up  proudly, 
while  the  soft  hazel  eyes  flashed  with  sudden  fire — "I 
mean  to  follow  you  to  the  end  of  the  world,  until  you 
consent  to  grant  to  me  the  right  to  bear  your  name." 
She  ceased,  panting  slightly,  and  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
as  if  exhausted. 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  95 

**  My  dear  girl,"  drawled  Dyke,  "  pray  spare  me  another 
scene  ;  I  have  not  yet  recovered  from  the  last.  Compose 
yourself,  and  we  will  talk  the  matter  over  quietly."  He 
poured  some  liqueur  from  a  crystal  carafe  standing  on  a 
console  at  his  elbow,  and  placed  the  tiny  glass  beside 
Dora.  "  Calm  yourself,"  he  repeated.  "Taste  this;  in 
the  mean  time  I  shall  read  your  letter." 

He  sank  into  a  chair  opposite  her  and  deliberately 
opened  her  letter.  He  read  on  steadily  for  a  few  minutes, 
gently  stroking  his  long  moustache,  with  no  perceptible 
change  of  expression. 

Those  words  wrung  from  her  heart  might  have  been 
the  whine  of  an  over-pampered  spaniel  for  all  effect  they 
had  upon  him.  Dora,  without  noticing  the  cordial  at  her 
side,  watched  Dyke  anxiously. 

Seen  against  the  violet  velvet  of  the  fauteuil,  her  face 
looked  like  Parian  marble  in  its  transparent  purity  ;  the 
great  golden-brown  eyes  looked  larger  from  the  violet 
shadows  beneath  them,  while  the  hand  from  which  she 
had  removed  her  glove  was  white  and  blue-veined  as  the 
Mareotis  lily. 

"Ah  !"  Dyke  exclaimed  at  last,  laying  down  the  letter, 
"so  you  refuse  to  allow  me  to  provide  for  you  and  the 
child.  Is  not  your  pride  running  away  with  your  judg- 
ment, Dora,  my  dear?" 

She  sat  up  straight  now,  and  leaned  a  little  forward  as 
she  said,  "  Dyke  Faucett,  were  I  to  accept  from  your  hand 
now  the  alms  you  offer  me,  would  not  I  go  on  through  all 
the  miserable  future  a  pensioner  on  your  bounty,  an  un- 
known, dishonored  dependent  on  the  charity  of  the  man 
who  for  five  long  years  has  deceived  me  and  tampered  with 
my  faith  in  him,  and  who  will  deceive  and  tamper  with 
me  to  the  end  of  his  life?  Oh,  my  Fatlier  in  heaven  !" 
she  cried,  piteously,  raising  her  clasped  hands,  "is  there 


96         THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

no  truth  in  this  man?  no  honor,  no  manliness?  nothing 
but  the  beautiful  face,  and  the  bad,  cruel  heart?"  She 
covered  her  face  with  her  thin  hands  and  rocked  herself 
to  and  fro.  Dyke  Faucett  never  wasted  his  .eloquence, 
therefore  he  sat  quite  silent  until  the  storm  should  be  past. 
Her  next  words  almost  startled  him. 

"  Dyke,  where  is  the  old  man — Foster  his  name  was — 
who  married  us?" 

•"  Dead,  I  understand  from  a  recent  letter  from  Rome  ; 
he  died  two  years  ago,"  he  replied. 

"  A  recent  letter?"  she  looked  fixedly  at  him,  and  then 
the  moan  broke  forth:  '■^ Dead!  is  it  not  ominous  that 
all  connected  with  that  sad  ceremony  should  be  dead  ? 
Annunziata,  my  little  maid,  and  the  dear  old  man  who 
loved  to  talk  of  his  English  home  to  you, — both  dead,  and 
only  you  and  I  left  to  tell  the  story  !"  A  little  ghost  of  a 
smile  rested  on  the  sweet  mouth. 

"  Don't,  Dora,  don't  get  pathetic,  I  beg  of  you,"  en- 
treated Dyke;  "all  that  sort  of  thing  does  very  well  on 
the  stage,  but  in  real  life,  'pon  my  soul  it's — ridiculous." 
He  opened  his  cigarette-case  and  proceeded  to  roll  for 
himself  some  little  consolation. 

Dora  looked  at  him  curiously,  and  then  said,  "Dyke, 
do  you  mean  to  acknowledge  me  as  your  wife?  do  you 
mean  to  begin  from  to-day  to  undo  all  the  wrong  you 
have  done  me  and  my  child  ?  Do  you  remember  our 
wedding-day.  Dyke,  five  years  ago  next  March?"  How 
passing  sweet  and  mournful  her  voice  grew  as  she  looked 
back  with  her  eyes  full  of  a  wistful  sadness  on  the  scene 
of  her  marriage,  through  the  "tender  light  of  a  day  that 
was  dead"  ! 

"What  a  happy  day  that  was,  Dyke,"  she  went  on, 
dreamily.  "We  were  married,  you  remember,  early  in  the 
morning,  so  that  we  might  drive  out  to  Tivoli  and  spend 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  97 

the  whole  day  there,  and  come  home  in  the  sweet,  still 
evening.  Oh,  how  blue  the  sky  was  !  and  how  the  birds 
sang  that  day  !  and  the  scent  of  the  violets  will  haunt  me 
till  I  die.  And  you  crowned  me  with  wild-flowers,  and 
made  me  sing  for  you ;  and  then  you  told  me  of  your 
childhood  ;  your  home  ;  your  kind  guardian.  And  when 
I  grew  sad  with  the  thought  of  my  dear  old  father,  whom 
I  had  deceived  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  day, 
how  gently  you  comforted  me  ! — for  you  loved  me  then. 
Dyke;  you  did  love  me  then  !  And  when  we  came  home 
weary, — but  oh,  so  happy ! — hand-in-hand  under  the  silent 
stars,  you  kissed  me,  and  bade  me  go  in  and  tell  my 
father  of  my  happiness.  Oh,  Dyke,  is  there  nothing  in 
all  these  memories  to  stir  your  heart?" 

There  was  no  answer  for  a  moment,  and  then — 

"  Your  father,— he  is  well,  I  hope,"  said  Faucett,  courte- 
ously;  "and,"  a  little  nervously, — "the  child?" 

Dora  looking  steadily  at  him  saw  the  hands  which  were 
rolling  the  cigarette  tremble  a  little. 

In  a  moment,  before  he  could  move  or  prevent  it,  she 
had  thrown  herself  on  her  knees  at  his  feet,  with  her  arms 
about  him,  and  her  lovely  eyes  filled  with  the  luminous 
glow  which  made  her  face  look  too  delicate  to  hold  them. 

"  Dyke,  your  hand  is  trembling.  You  do  care  for  her, — 
our  little  Marian ;  she  is  so  lovable  and  beautiful.  You 
cannot,  canitot  tear  her  from  your  heart!"  Passionate 
tears  rained  down,  and  the  slight  form  bent  and  swa3'ed 
like  a  yoimg  tree  before  the  blast ;  but  Dyke  Faucett  had 
never,  since  his  birth,  sacrificed  himself  for  another, 
and  he  did  not  dream  of  beginning  to  learn  that  lesson 
now. 

Gently  he  raised  and  replaced  her  in  her  chair,  and 
then, — "  Dora,  if  you  have  quite  done  ranting,  a  thing  I 
utterly  detest, — in  the  worst  possible  taste, —  I  will  tell  you 
E  9 


98         THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

why  what  you  ask  of  me  is  impossible — at  present."  The 
two  last  words  were  almost  inaudible,  decidedly  reluctant. 
"  My  guardian,  the  kindest  man  alive,  is  the  most  obsti- 
nate of  men  on  some  subjects.  I  have  told  you  so  often 
before  that  it  seems  scarcely  reasonable  to  expect  me  to 
repeat  it,  that  my  marriage, — particularly  a  clandestine 
marriage,  during  the  three  years  in  which  I  had  pledged 
myself  to  keep  free  from  entanglements — would  bring 
upon  me  the  insurmountable  displeasure  of  the  man  upon 
whom  I  am  completely  dependent, — who  would  undoubt- 
edly disinherit  me,  for  he  is  not  the  man  to  pardon  de- 
ception, and  throw  me — at  thirty  years  of  age,  without 
profession,  without  the  energy  to  work — upon  my  own 
resources;  and  you  know  me  well  enough,  Dora,  to  know 
that  'I  cannot  dig,  to  beg  I  am  ashamed.'  Now,"  he 
concluded,  "if  you  will  be  patient  and  reasonable,  and 

allow  me  to  make  suitable  provision  for  you " 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  this  before?"  she  inter- 
rupted. "I  have  heard  nothing,  until  to-day,  of  your 
promise  to  keep  yourself  free  during  those  three  years. 
Why  have  you,  during  all  our  married  life,  promised,  from 
month  to  month,  from  year  to  year,  to  take  me  home 
with  you  to  England,  and  lift  from  my  heart  and  head  the 
burden  of  a  shame  which  is  not  mine?  And  now  there 
is  no  talk  of  next  month,  or  next  year,  but  an  indefinite 
waiting  for  another  man's  death.  And  in  tlie  mean  time 
I  may  die;  I  am  not  strong,  you  know;  and  there  is 
Marian, — is  she,  my  spotless  lily,  to  grow  up  to  womanhood 
with  such  a  stain  as  this  upon  her?  Dyke,  do  you  im- 
agine that  I  will  endure  this  ?  Do  you  think  that  because 
I  have  been  patient  in  the  i)ast — as  long  as  I  had  a  shred 
of  trust  in  you  to  cling  to — I  will  be  forbearing  in  the 
future?  Undeceive  yourself;  the  time  will  come  when 
the  vow  of  .secrecy  you  extorted  from  me  five  years  ago 


THE   MILLS   OF  TILE    GODS.  99 

shall  be  broken, — when,  for  my  child's  sake,  I  shall  de- 
nounce the  man  who  has  treacherously  forsaken  me, — the 
man  who  is  too  cowardly  to  tell  me  the  whole  truth, — 
which  is,  that  he  has  ceased  to  love  me, — the  toy  has  lost 
its  charm,  the  flower  has  faded  in  his  hand  ;  it  is  but  one 
more  poor,  withered  weed,  to  be  flung  aside  when  such 
flowers  as  this,  and  this"  (laying  down  before  him  two 
exquisitely  painted  miniatures  of  celebrated  beauties  of 
the  day),  "bloom  near  his  hand.  Ah,  Dyke,  I  am  not 
jealous  of  these  beautiful  women  j  I  can  only  pity  them 
if  they  love  you.'''' 

Faucett  took  up  the  pictures  and  carefully  replaced 
them  on  the  cheffonnier,  and  resuming  his  seat,  said, 
irrelevantly,  "You  should  leave  Paris,  Dora,  and  return 
to  Tours  ;  it  will  not  be  safe  for  you  here.  /  leave  for 
England  to-morrow  night." 

Her  face  grew  troubled.  "Will  Paris  be  besieged?" 
she  asked. 

"Assuredly."    • 

"Then  I  shall  go.  It  would  be  terrible  for  my  father, 
— he  is  very  feeble  now, — and  for  Marian.  Ah,  I  have 
left  them  too  long,  now;   I  must  go  at  once." 

With  nervous  haste  she  gathered  up  parasol  and  gloves. 
Then  she  came  quietly  to  his  side  and  said,  witli  winning 
gentleness,  "Dyke,  I  tuill  be  patient;  I  will  wait  until 
you  have  seen  and  talked  with  your  guardian  ;  I  will  wait 
one  month  from  today,  and" — her  voice  grew  firmer 
here — "  if  you  do  not  tlien  send,  or  come  for  mc,  I  shall 
stand  up  and  proclaim  myself  your  wife,  my  Marian  your 
child,  in  the  face  of  the  whole  world." 

His  face  hardened  into  stone;  a  slight  sneer  disfigured 
the  beautiful  mouth:  "I  had  hoped  you  had  done  with 
histrionics,  Dora,  when  you  perceived  how  utterly  they 
failed  with  nie ;  and  now,  as  you  have  seen  fit  to  threaten 


lOO  THE   MILLS   OF    THE   GODS. 

me,  may  I  ask  hoiv  you  mean  to  prove  the  truth  of  your 
assertions  in  regard  to  our  marriage  /' ' 

His  voice  was  quite  as  sweet  and  low  as  when,  under 
the  sunny  skies  of  Italy,  he  had  wooed  her  with  loving 
words  and  promises;  and,  for  the  credit  of  human  nature, 
let  us  believe  that  this  was  merely  said  as  a  taunt ;  but  it 
struck  like  a  sharp  knife  into  the  already  bleeding  heart 
of  the  woman  before  him. 

"Do  you,  then,  deny  me?"  she  cried,  in  a  voice  faint 
with  pain.  "  Is  this  your  plan, — to  cast  me  utterly  away? 
Oh,  my  child  !  my  child  !"  And  groping  with  her  hands 
before  her,  like  one  suddenly  struck  blind,  she  passed 
away  out  of  his  sight. 

A  drizzling  rain  was  falling,  as  she  emerged  from  the 
porte-cochere  and  turned  her 'steps  mechanically  towards 
the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  faint  and  giddy  with  the  blow  which 
had  not  been  unforeseen,  but  which  had  fallen  none  the 
less  heavily  for  that. 


CHAPTER     III. 

Heedless  of  the  shower,  Dora  moved  slowly  along  the 
Rue  Royale,  seeing  nothing,  hearing  nothing, — numb 
with  pain, — until,  as  she  turned  into  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  a 
horrible  noise  aroused  her,  and  she  became  conscious  of 
a  shouting,  surging,  excited  mass  of  human  beings,  bear- 
ing down  upon  her  from  an  opposite  direction,  gesticu- 
lating wildly,  brandisliing  clubs,  armed  with  stones, 
shrieking  imprecations,  dragging  along  in  mad  fury  an 
almost  insensible  wretch,  whom  they  suspected,  justly  or 
unjustly,  of  being  a  spy.     "  To  the  Seine  !    to  the  Seine  ! 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  loi 

Shoot  him  !  Drown  him  !  Chien  de  Prussien  !  Vive  la 
Republique  !"  A  piping  voice:  "Vive  Trochu !"  A 
stentorian  voice  :    "  Down  with  Trochu  !"   etc.,  etc. 

Dora  hesitated,  turned  to  fly,  and  encountered  a  band 
of  five  hundred  "Gardes  Nationales"  marching  to  join 
their  comrades  on  the  Place  Vendome,  with  colors  flying 
and  drums  beating,  and  supported  by  the  usual  accompa- 
niment of  blue  blouses  and  ragged  gamins. 

In  a  moment  they  would  be  upon  her.  Stunned,  deaf- 
ened, wild  with  terror,  she  darted  hither  and  thither 
among  the  maddened  crowd,  when  suddenly  her  foot 
slipped  on  the  wet  pavement,  and  she  went  down,  down 
under  the  brutal  feet  of  a  French  mob. 

Fortunately,  the  cry,  "A  woman!  a  woman!  is  she 
killed?  is  she  hurt?"  created  a  diversion,  and  caused  a 
momentary  lull,  while  a  pair  of  stout  arms  drew  her  forth 
bruised,  bleeding,  inanimate,  as  if  truly  dead.  Holding  her 
cradled  in  his  brawny  arms,  the  man,  wearing  the  blouse 
of  the  ouvrier,  elbowed  his  way  out  of  the  crowd,  already 
dispersing  before  the  advance  of  the  National  Guard. 

He  glanced  at  the  white  face,  with  its  closed  eyes,  and 
the  long  lashes  lying  on  the  waxen  cheek,  and  at  the  thin 
crimson  thread  of  blood  which  issued  from  between  her 
pale  lips,  and  a  thrill  passed  over  the  giant  frame  of  the 
strong  man,  who  a  moment  ago  was  hounding  a  fellow- 
creature  to  the  death.  "  My  God  !"  he  muttered,  "she  is 
dead,  and  I  trod  on  her  f'^ 

He  darted  with  her  into  an  open  door  of  a  patisserie 
at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  and  the  Rue  Royale. 
The  shop  was  deserted  ;  but,  without  releasing  his  burden, 
he,  with  his  elbow,  pushed  towards  the  edge  of  the  counter 
a  huge  glass  jar  of  marrons  glacees,  and  let  it  fall  with  a 
crash  on  the  marble  tiles  beneath. 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu  !    what  is  this?  are  the  Prussians  in 

9* 


I02  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

Paris?  are  we  all  to  be  murdered  in  cold  blood?" 
screamed  a  woman's  voice  at  the  head  of  the  staircase 
opening  into  the  shop. 

The  workman  needed  no  further  invitation  ;  gently, 
very  slowly,  he  mounted  the  stair,  guarding  Dora's  head 
and  limbs  from  contact  with  any  object  which  might  jar 
her.  The  shrieks  redoubled,  and  were  echoed  by  infantile 
voices  in  the  shrill  treble  of  frantic  fear. 

"Ah,  what  cowards  you  are,  all  of  you!"  panted  the 
OHvricr,  depositing  his  burden  tenderly  on  the  nearest 
bed;  "and  you  call  yourselves  Frenchwomen!  Sacre- 
bleu  !  you  are  not  the  women  of  the  last  Revolution  !  Is 
there  anything  in  that  dead  girl  to  terrify  you  so?"  He 
pointed  to  the  insensible  form ;  and  the  frightened  women, 
who  had  covered  their  eyes  awaiting  the  final  shot,  removed 
their  hands  and  ventured  to  approach  the  bed.  The  chil- 
dren ceased  their  wailing,  and  crept  on  tip-toe  to  their 
mothers'  sides. 

"  Ciel !  comme  elle  est  pale!  Is  she  dead,  do  you 
think,  Ernestine?"  asked  the  younger  of  the  two  women. 

"God  knows,"  answered  the  other,  who  was  busily 
occupied  in  taking  off  the  crushed  bonnet  and  loosening 
the  fastenings  of  her  dress.  "Marie,  run  to  No.  lo  Rue 
St.  Honore  and  send  Dr.  Dubois  here — if  he  should 
chance  to  be  at  home — immediately, — fly  !" 

"Oh,  I  dare  not,  Ernestine;  I  am  afraixl  to  go  into 
the  streets  to-day  !  There  are  great  doings  at  the  Hotel 
de  Ville,  and  they  say  there  will  be  trouble  before  night, 
and " 

"Hull!"  interrupted  the  workman.  "Where  is  this 
doctor?  I  will  fetch  liini,  whether  he  will  or  no.  What 
number  did  you  say?"     He  was  off  like  a  shot. 

Meanwhile,  Ernestine  was  si)onging  with  cold  water  the 
poor,  soiled  face,  and  sprinkling  cologne  over  tlie  hands 


THE  MILLS   OF  TILE    GODS. 


103 


and  head.  Marie  was  busy  in  preparing  a  glass  of  eau 
Sucre  and  orange-water,  to  be  ready  on  the  recovery  of  the 
patient,  that  concoction  being  considered  a  specific  by  the 
Parisian  for  every  ill  that  flesh  is  heir  to. 

Presently  there  was  a  struggling  sigh,  a  gasp  for  breath, 
and  Dora  opened  her  eyes,  and  closed  them  again  instantly 
with  a  shudder. 

"  Elle  est  encore  evanouie,"  whispered  Marie,  approach- 
ing with  her  eau  d'orange.  "Oh,  die  va  mourir ;  ah, 
mon  Dieu,  comme  elle  est  jeune  et  belle,  et  quelles  petites 
mains  qu'elle  a  !  et  quels  pieds,  ceux  sont  des  pieds  d'en- 
fant,  veritablement  !" 

"Ah,  taisez-vous  done,  Marie;  elle  revient." 

Again  the  white  lids  unclose,  and  the  eyes,  gazing 
into  Ernestine's  good,  homely  Breton  face,  ask  mutely, 
"Where  am  I?" 

"  You  are  safe,  mon  enfant,"  answered  the  good  women, 
in  a  breath ;  "  lie  still,  the  doctor  will  be  here  presently, 
and  you  must  not  move  until  he  comes." 

"But  have  I  been  ill?"  she  whispered  in  English; 
"and  Marian,  where  is  she, — oh,  where  is  she?" 

"  Tiens !  c'est  une  Anglaise,"  pronoimced  Marie. 
"  Mamselle  no  spick  Franch  ?"  she  asked. 

(The  patisserie  window  below  boasted  a  card,  "  Ici  on 
parle  Anglais  !") 

"Oui,  oui,"  answered  Dora;  and  then  eagerly,  in  their 
own  tongue,  she  prayed  to  be  taken  home  at  once  to  her 
child, — her  old  father, — who  knew  not  what  had  become 
of  her. 

"Mais  oui,  certainemcnt ;  you  sail  come  back  to  the 
house, — bicntot, — de  suite — when  M.  le  Docteur  say. 
Tenez,  Mamselle,  buvez  done,  une  toute  petite  goutte  !" 
She  attempted  to  raise  Dora's  head,  but  a  cry  of  i)ain 
arrested  her. 


I04  THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

"My  shoulder!    it   is  broken;    it   is  out  of  place," 
moaned  she,  and  then  lay  still  with  closed  eyes. 

Heavy  footsteps  on  the  stairs  announced  the  return  of 
the  ouvrier. 

"He  has  gone,  your  doctor  3  escaped  yesterday  to 
Boulogne  ;  afraid  of  his  skin  ;  and  I  have  not  been 
able  to  find  another.  What  can  be  done?  Has  she 
spoken  ?" 

"Ah,  yes,"  replied  Ernestine,  gravely,  "but  I  fear  she 
is  very  badly  hurt ;  her  shoulder  seems  displaced ;  some 
brute  must  have  put  his  foot  on  her!" 

He  shuddered.  "  It  may  be  she  fell  in  the  crowd,  and 
we  were  punishing  cc  pauvre  diable  Miiller,  so  we  had  not 
time  to  be  gallant;"  he  smiled  grimly,  and  then  said, 
sadly,  "There  will  be  many  such  scenes  before  these 
troubles  are  over.  The  streets  are  full  of  madmen  now, 
and  I  have  promised  to  meet  some  friends  at  the  Cafe  du 
Rhin,  for  to-morrow  I  am  to  be  enrolled  in  the  National 
Guard, — Jacques  Toquelet,  at  your  service!" — with  a 
military  salute  and  a  smile. 

"Oh,  Dion  ami,''  sighed  the  woman,  "you  smile 
brightly  to-day,  and  to-morrow,  perhaps,  you  may  lie  as 
she  lies  now"  (pointing  to  the  bed).  "  Where  is  this  to 
end  ?  Is  Trochu  a  fool  or  a  coward,  that  he  accepts  not 
the  wish  of  the  people?" 

"Both,  I  fear,"  he  replied.  "The  fact  is,  madame," 
drawing  nearer  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  conviction, 
"the  people  don't  know  what  they  want;  they  have 
tasted  blood,  and  they  are  mad.  Trochu  was  the  idol  of 
the  hour,  but  he  is  not  the  man  to  save  Paris,  unless,  in- 
deed, he  goes  with  us  of  the  National  Guard.  What  think 
you,  via  petite  dame,  would  he  accept  the  command  of  the 
National  Guard  ?" 

"Ah,  monsieur,  do  not  jest ;  one  cannot  laugh  with  the 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  105 

heart  full  of  tears.     If  the  Prussians  invest  Paris  shall  we 
not  all  be  slaughtered  ?" 

"  Mille  to7ine7'res  !  /iiais  noii,  viadame.  Can  you  breathe 
such  a  thought  while  Jacques  Toquelet  and  thousands  of 
other  brave  hearts  remain  to  defend  you?  Let  them 
come  {sacres  chicus  qu  Us  sont),  they  shall  not  wear  out 
our  courage  or  endurance,  and  before  we  yield  one  inch 
of  our  France  to  the  coclions  iV Allemands,  we  will  not 
leave  one  heart  beating,  or  one  stone  upon  another,  in  our 
Paris  !  Do  not  fear,  madame :  we  have  met  with  some 
reverses,  but  a  Frenchman  never  stays  beaten." 

All  this  time  the  poor  woman,  deriving  little  con- 
solation from  her  companion's  contradictory  assurances, 
stood  close  to  the  window,  peering  anxiously  into  the 
street. 

'  "You  don't  happen  to  know  my  good  man,"  she  asked, 
— "Louis  Picot,  do  you?  He  has  not  been  in  since  early 
morning,  when  he  went  with  a  party  to  the  Place  of  the 
Hotel  de  Ville,  to  hear  what  news  from  the  Assembly.  I 
fear  much  he  has  come  to  harm." 

"  I  regret  that  I  do  not  know  him,  madame;  should  I 
meet  him  in  the  future,  I  shall  do  him  a  service  if  I  can  ; 
in  the  mean  time  you  must  not  torment  yourself  with 
forebodings ;  as  I  tell  my  little  ones  at  home  :  '  never  cry 
unless  your  heads  are  off.'  " 

"  Monsieur,"  came  in  a  feeble  voice  from  the  bed. 

He  darted  to  the  side  of  the  suffering  woman.  "Mon- 
sieur, I  want  to  thank  you,"  Dora  said,  and  put  out  a 
tiny  hand  which  lay  like  a  pearl  in  the  oyster-shell  of  his 
great  brown  palm  ;  "  you  have  saved  me  from  a  terrible 
death,  and  life  is  very  precious  to  me,  for  I  have  a  little 
daughter,  sir.  I  heard  you  speak  just  now  of  your  chil- 
dren :  you  can  then  feel  for  me.  Take  me  home,  I  im- 
plore you.     See,  it  is  growing  late  in  the  afternoon,  and 

E* 


lo6  THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

I  must  go  now."  She  ceased,  panting  from  exhaustion, 
and  the  man  answered  her,  promptly, — 

"You  shall  go,  instantly,  the  moment  I  get  a  fiacre  to 
the  door.  I  will  carry  you  down,  and  this  good  little 
woman  will  go  with  you."  He  pointed  to  Marie,  who 
sat  pale  and  trembling  in  a  distant  corner.  As  he  dis- 
appeared in  search  of  a  carriage,  she  took  the  childrenby 
each  hand,  and  vanished,  to  be  seen  no  more  that  day. 

In  great  agony,  but  without  a  groan,  Dora  submitted 
gladly  to  being  carried  down-stairs  and  seated  in  the  fiacre 
with  Ernestine's  kind  arms  supporting  her.  Jacques  To- 
quelet,  postponing  his  engagement  at  the  Cafe  du  Rhin 
indefinitely,  leaped  upon  the  box  as  they  started. 

Dora  had  just  time  to  slip  her  purse  into  Ernestine's 
hand  before  she  became  once  more  insensible. 

At  the  same  hour  that  the  sorry  vehicle  which  held  the 
inanimate  form  of  the  woman  he  had  vowed  to  love  and 
cherish  dragged  at  a  snail's  pace  its  weary  way  over  the 
Seine  to  the  Latin  quarter.  Dyke  Faucett,  "  curled  and 
oiled"  in  away  that  would  have  astonished  the  "Assyrian 
bull"  of  scented  memory,  in  faultless  attire  and  most  com- 
placent mood,  dropped  into  the  magnificent  salons  of 
Madame  la  Marquise  de  Courboisie,  who  had  secured  him 
weeks  ago  by  a  dinner  invitation  for  this  evening. 

In  this  princely  suite  of  rooms,  dazzlingly  lighted  by 
myriads  of  wax  candles,  where  all  that  art  and  taste  and 
wealth  could  contribute  to  form  a  whole  gratifying  to  the 
senses;  in  the  laughing  Pauline  herself,  a  charming  bru- 
nette, with  the  air  of  an  empress  and  the  fascination  of  a 
siren, — or  a  Frenchwoman, — one  failed  to  realize  the  peril 
and  anguish  upon  the  brink  of  which  Paris  tottered.  The 
Faubourg  St.  Germain  seemed  as  far  removed  from  all  these 
horrors  as — the  moon, — and,  after  the  exquisite  dinner, 


THE  MILLS    OF   THE    GODS.  107 

the  other  guests  dropped  away  one  by  one  to  fulfill  various 
engagements,  and  Dyke,  finding  himself  in  the  cool, 
dreamy,  green  light  of  the  conservatory,  with  the  music 
of  splashing  fountains  in  his  ear,  and  the  velvet  eyes  of 
Pauline  raised  with  well-counterfeited  tenderness  in  their 
depths  to  his,  broke  to  her  the  news  of  his  departure  on 
the  morrow. 

No  scene  greeted  the  disclosure:  she  was  too  grande 
dame  for  any  exhibition  of  that  description.  She  merely 
crushed  her  great  tortoise-shell  fan  in  her  small  hand 
tightly  enough  to  break  one  or  two  of  its  carved  sticks 
silently,  and  then  smiled  up  in  his  face,  just  enough  to 
show  the  white,-  even  pearls  between  her  red  lips,  and 
said,  sweetly,  "Ah,  you  think  to  escape  me  thus,  cheri, 
and  to  leave  me  desolate  in  this  poor,  stricken  Paris,  do 
}ou,  viechant?  I  have  half  a  mind  not  to  tell  you  of  our 
plans,  and  to  say  adieu  to-night  in  place  of  au plaisir  /'' 

"  Can  it  be  possible,  Pauline,  for  you  to  be  serious  for 
one  moment  ?  This  parting  is  too  sorrowful  a  thing  to  me 
to  be  a  subject  of  mockery  to  you." 

"  Point  de  badinage,  cheri.  I  am  as  solemn  as  an  owl. 
We  go  to  England — to  your  tristc  London — to-morrow 
night.   Est-ce  que  tu  vas  me  boudcr  a  present,  ingrat  f 

"And  M.  le  Marquis — he  remains  in  Paris?" 

"  Safis  doute ;  he  must  remain  to  protect  the  aristoc- 
racy ;  but  I  shall  have  a  chaperone  ;  the  old  Duchessc  de 
Languedoc  resides  in  London,  and  I  shall  take  la  petite, 
and  nearly  all  my  servants,  hiiagine  me  witli  a  dozen  of 
your  English  'flunkeys'  about  me."  She  laughed  mer- 
rily,— not  a  trace  of  ill-humor  about  her.  What  a  con- 
trast to  that  fiery  little  Puritan,  Dora! 

And  yet,  when  about  midnight  the  bewitching  Pauline 
retired  to  her  sleeping -apartment,  and  gave  in  sudden, 
sharp  sentences  her  orders  for  the  unexpected  flight  on 


lo8  THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

the   following  evening,  poor  Celestine  could  tell  a  dif- 
ferent story  of  her  mistress's  amiability. 

Surely  among  these  lowly  hand-maidens  there  are  many 

"martyrs  by  the  pang,  without  the  palm." 

That  night's  mail  to  England  carried  the  following 
letter : 

"To  Sir  Philip  Standley,  Bart.,  EUingham  Hall,  Kent. 

"My  dear  Sir  Philip,— The  fiat  has  gone  forth  ;  who 
shall  gainsay  it?  You  have  commanded  my  return  to 
England  in  requesting  it. 

"In  my  ready  acquiescence,  pray  accept  the  gratitude 
of  my  heart,  which  I  cannot  otherwise  express,  for  your 
inexhaustible  goodness  towards  me.  Pardon  me,  how- 
ever, if  I  confess  that  your  suggestions  of  a  wife  for  me 
are  less  alluring  than  the  prospect  of  the  siege.  As  to 
marriage,  I  hold  but  one  opinion :  it  is  a  necessary  evil 
where  an  heir  is  indispensable,  but  I  sympathize  with  the 
Athenians  when  they  held  but  one  impracticable  desire 
in  the  zenith  of  their  power,  and  cried  out,  'Ah,  if  we 
could  but  have  children — without  wojnen  P 

"  I  leave  Paris  to-morrow  night,  and  shall  go  at  once 

to  EUingham. 

"Always  affectionately  yours, 

"  Dyke  Faucett." 

"  Rue  Royale,  Paris,  Sept.  4,  '70" 

After  Dyke  Faucett  had  dispatched  this  epistle,  and 
sundry  other  notes  of  farewell  to  friends  in  Paris,  he 
lounged  an  hour  away  with  his  favorite  cheroot,  reviewing 
the  events  of  the  day.  His  memory  passed  swiftly  over 
the  unwelcome  letter  to  which  he  had  just  replied,  and  the 
still  more  unwelcome  visitor  who  had  well-nigh  upset  his 
nerves  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  dwelt  long  and  lovingly 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  109 

over  the  unequivocal  demonstration  of  devotion  he  had 
read  in  the  suddenly-developed  plan  of  the  beautiful 
marquise.  She  had  not  deceived  him  ;  their  natures  were 
too  sympathetic  for  any  by-play  to  escape  unnoticed. 
They  were  equally  selfish,  and  equally  unscrupulous  ;  but 
they  were  botli  too  high-bred  to  deal  in  the  common 
emotions  of  humanity — outwardly.  If  their  hands  were 
clinched  sometimes  in  irrepressible  passion,  be  sure  they 
were  Men  gantees  and  the  nails  never  pierced  the  tender 
flesh. 

Dyke  Faucett's  slumbers  that  night  were  peaceful  as  a 
babe's. 

Nemesis  is  ofttimes  a  laggard  in  our  finite  judgments ; 
it  is,  however,  a  comfort  to  reflect  that  althougli  ^^  tlie 
mills  of  the  gods  grind  slowly,  they  grind  exceeding  small." 


CHAPTER     IV. 

Paris,  like  the  wily  Ulysses,  "fertile  in  devices," 
gathered  together  from  all  parts  of  the  world  the  gay, 
the  frivolous,  the  learned  curious,  and — the  curious  un- 
learned. 

To  the  average  Frenchman,  a  life  that  is  not  debonnaire 
presents  a  foretaste  of  purgatory,  which  his  poco-curante 
philosophy  does  not  impel  him  to  anticipate,  even  when 
engaged  in  the  sterner  work  requiring  a  self-abstrac- 
tion inconsistent  with  frivolity.  Still,  there  have  been 
presented  specimens  of  intellectual  development  in  the 
volatile  Gaul  which  have  long  won  the  admiration  of  their 
insular  neighbors,  who  are  not  too  over-blown  with  na- 
tional prejudices  to  acknowledge  the  fi.ict,  and  to  trans- 

10 


no  THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 

port  their  inflated  intelligences  over  the  narrow  seas  to  reap 
what  benefits  there  might  be  found  ripe  for  the  plucking. 

Of  all  the  French  schools  of  science,  none  occupy  a 
higher  position  than  that  of  medicine. 

To  the  Hotel  Dieu,  one  of  God's  own  mansions  on 
earth,  flocked  the  disciples  of  the  healing  art  of  all  nations, 
that  the  talents  which  had  been  given  them  should  not  rot 
undeveloped,  and,  wrapped  in  the  napkin  of  a  supine 
ignorance,  fail  to  expand  under  the  generative  sun  of  a 
world-wide  experience. 

Among  the  others,  came  Ronald  Buchanan,  who,  for 
two  years,  had  imbibed  deep  draughts  from  this  well  of 
pathology  (whose  depths,  alas  !  are  fathomless),  with  which 
he  hoped  to  strengthen  the  backbone  of  his  future  pros- 
pects— dependent  entirely  upon  persevering  exertion — 
and  establish  himself  in  the  not-altogether  congenial 
career  of  a  surgeon  in  his  native  land.  However,  he  was 
a  man  who,  after  once  putting  his  hand  to  the  plow, 
looked  not  back. 

There  was  an  atmosphere  of  force  about  him  which  im- 
pressed all  who  came  in  contact  with  him, — in  the  clean- 
cut  face  there  was  not  a  vestige  of  weakness ;  and  in 
the  eyes, — gray  eyes,  with  the  brown  iris  which  could 
soften  into  such  tenderness  at  times, — well  set  under  dark, 
straight  brows,  which  gave  a  decisive  tone  to  the  face 
when  considered  in  connection  with  the  firm  lines  of  a 
chin  too  square  for  other  beauty  than  that  of  strength, — 
one  could  read  the  honesty  of  purpose,  the  unflinching 
trutlifiilncss  of  the  man's  character. 

And  yet  the  mouth  was  the  most  expressive  feature  of 
a  face  never  to  be  forgotten  in  love  or  anger. 

There  was  singular  sweetness  in  the  rare  smile,  which 
disclosed  perfect  rows  of  white  teeth  beneath  the  unbearded 
lip;  but  when  the  Scotch  blood  in  his  veins  was  kindled 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  m 

to  wrath  by  cowardly  act,  or  sense  of  injustice  done,  the 
mouth  lost  its  gentle  curves,  and  in  straight  lines  pointed 
to  retribution. 

Such  was  the  head,  borne  upon  strong,  square  shoulders, 
and  proportionate  length  of  body  and  limb,  which  as- 
cended with  bounding  leaps  the  flight  of  stone  steps  which 
led  to  his  modest  quarters,  au  cinquiafie,  in  the  Rue  de 
Vaugirard  of  the  Quartier  Latin. 

*'  Qu'on  est  bien  a  vingt  ans,"  he  shouted,  in  far  from 
unmusical  voice,  which  was  immediately  subdued  as  he 
remembered  how  harshly  sounds  of  mirth  might  strike 
upon  some  troubled  heart  in  his  vicinity.  Opening  the 
door  with  his  pass-key,  he  rapidly  divested  himself  of 
coat  and  hat,  and,  slipping  into  a  dressing-gown  worn 
into  comfortable  creases,  he  proceeded  to  fill  a  pipe  and 
settle  himself  down  to  meditation.  There  was  a  knotty 
point  to  be  argued,  and  he  had  left  it  until  after  his  frugal 
dinner  of  three  courses  and  sour  wine,  that  he  might  take 
his  "familiar,"  the  deep-colored  meerschaum  of  years, 
into  counsel. 

It  was  the  question  which  had  vexed  the  minds  of  half 
Paris  for  weeks,  and  which  now,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
must  be  definitely  decided. 

Should  he  return  to  England,  to  the  dear  old  parsonage, 
where  his  happy-hearted  sisters  made  so  bright  a  home  for 
him,  and  where  his  reverend  father,  a  hale,  ruddy-faced, 
jovial-hearted  Christian,  expounded  the  Scriptures  accord- 
ing to  his  lights  through  their  cheeriest  messages  of  "peace 
and  good  will  towards  men"?  Or  should  he  remain  in 
the  unhappy  city,  where  there  would  soon  be  earnest  work 
for  him  to  do  among  the  suffering  and  wounded,  the  help- 
less and  the  weak  ? 

The  parson's  quiver  is  proverbially  full,  and  the  little 
parsonage  had  long  since  overflowed. 


112  THE   MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 

The  eldest  of  four  sons  had,  through  the  influence  of  a 
relative,  obtained  a  commission  in  Her  Majesty's  service, 
and  had  been  some  years  in  India.  The  second  was  glad 
to  accept  a  lucrative  position  in  a  large  house  in  Bombay. 
The  third  is  our  Ronald,  and  the  fourth,  still  a  boy  at 
school. 

Of  the  four  sisters,  three  were  rosy-faced,  flaxen-haired, 
jolly  girls,  with  little  distinguishing  characteristics,  all 
turned  out  of  the  same  mould.  The  fourth,  the  eldest  of 
the  family,  a  dark-haired,  gray-eyed,  thoughtful  woman, 
with  much  of  Ronald's  strength,  tempered  by  a  most 
angelic  sweetness  in  her  face. 

It  was  Lydia  who,  fourteen  years  ago,  just  in  the  budding 
beauty  of  womanhood,  took  the  tiny  week-old  infant  from 
her  dying  mother's  arms  and  vowed  to  consecrate  to  it, 
and  the  others,  who  were  so  soon  in  helpless  childhood  to 
be  left  motherless,  the  life  which  stretched  out  before  her 
so  full  of  fairer  promise.  For  it  was  only  a  week  ago  on 
that  sad,  never-to-be-forgotten  day,  that  she  had  pledged 
her  faith  to  the  young  curate,  who,  wishing  to  add  the 
crowning  jewel  to  a  beautiful  life  full  of  good  works, 
had  won  as  helpmeet  a  woman  such  as  this,  who  found 
strength  to  renounce  happiness,  and  find  blessedness  in 
taking  upon  her  young  shoulders  the  burden  of  another. 

And  after  the  promise  had  been  spoken  and  sealed  by  a 
kiss  upon  the  clay-cold  lips  which  could  never  kiss  again, 
there  was  no  wavering,  nor  shadow  of  turning  away  from 
the  self-imposed  duty  which  the  steadfast  eyes  saw  before 
them  in  the  dim,  future  years. 

Had  Paul  Wyngate  resented  the  decision  of  his  be- 
trothed, or  added  by  useless  repinings  to  the  bitterness  of 
her  pain,  when  she  drew  from  her  slender  hand  the  ring 
he  had  placed  there  so  short  a  time  before,  and  sorrow- 
fully but  firmly  freed  him  from  his  troth,  he  would  have 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


113 


simply  ceased  to  be  the  man  she  loved  above  all  else  on 
earth. 

But  he  never  for  a  moment  doubted  the  noble  heart  he 
had  learned  to  know  so  truly,  and  his  voice  was  full  of 
love  and  faith  as  he  said,  gently,  "  Put  the  ring  on  again, 
my  darling ;  we  need  not  love  each  other  less  if  we  must 
wait  a  little  longer  before  you  come  to  me  forever." 

''But,  Paul,"  she  murmured,  "it  may  be  years,  ten, 
fifteen  years,  before  I  can  leave  them,  and  your  life  must 
not  be  blighted  by  an  almost  hopeless  waiting." 

"  It  shall  never  be  hopeless,  please  God,  as  long  as  you 
and  I  live,  Lydia,"  he  answered,  with  a  sweet  earnestness 
wliich  filled  her  with  joy  inexpressible  even  in  that  sad 
hour.  And,  as  he  rej^laced  the  plain  golden  circlet  on  her 
finger,  she  felt  strong  to  walk  erect  in  the  path  which 
she  had  chosen,  and  which  would  never  now  be  the 
lonely  one  she  feared. 

All  through  those  fourteen  years — since  she  first,  with 
a  new,  sudden-born  dignity,  stepped  into  the  mother's 
vacant  place  —  had  Lydia  found  comfort,  sympathy, 
counsel  in  the  faithful  friend,  who  bided  his  time  in 
patience,  uncomplaining. 

Little  Robert  lived  and  throve ;  and  when  the  puny, 
wailing  babe  had,  under  her  cherishing  care,  grown  into 
the  strong,  liardy  lad,  wlio  looked  up  with  reverential 
devotion  to  the  sister-mother  of  the  household;  when  the 
three  oldest  boys  had  gone  forth  to  fight  the  battle  of  life, 
each  girt  with  the  breast-plate  of  her  gentle  teachings ; 
when  the  fair  young  sisters  had  bloomed  into  maidenhood, 
— Grace  and  Edith  and  liltle  Jean,  the  pet  of  her  father, 
"a  wee  bit  ^^;z/)'-looking  bairn,  with  a  lace  no  to  be  for- 
gotten, though  I  couldna  say  it  was  bonnie,"  as  he  was 
wont  to  describe  her  in  one  of  those  moments  of  rare 
feeling,  when  he  always  inslindively  found  expression  in 

I  o  ■■ 


114 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


the  dear,  a'most  forgotten,  dialect  of  his  childhood  in  the 
old  Scottish  manse, — then  Lydia  felt  that  her  task  was 
done,  and  that  the  rest  and  joy  which  she  had  promised 
Paul  and  herself  so  many  years  ago,  was  won. 

There  are  some  silver  threads  through  Paul's  dark  locks, 
and  the  bloom  on  Lydia's  cheek  has  faded,  but  in  the 
eyes  of  both  there  dwells  a  light  reflected  from  the  peace 
which  passeth  understanding. 

They  are  to  be  married  very  soon.  Paul  has  a  little 
parsonage  of  his  own  now,  and  Ronald  has  promised  to 
come  home  for  the  wedding. 


CHAPTER    V. 


His  pipe  had  gone  out,  and  still  the  }'-oung  surgeon  sat 
leaning,  with  folded  arms,  on  the  window-sill,  gazing  out 
in  the  fast  deepening  September  twilight  into  the  street 
beneath, — where  knots  of  students  and  the  blue-shirted 
autocracy  of  the  quarter  were  gathered  together  in  ex- 
cited discussion, — or,  over  the  way,  at  the  row  of  high, 
narrow  houses,  with  their  numerous  open  windows,  very 
interrogation-points  to  a  speculative  curiosity.  But  his 
thoughts  were  far  away;  he  was  picturing  to  himself  an 
intcricure  of  English  home  comfort,  in  which  a  good  deal 
of  carpet,  and  an  extravagant  open  fire,  good  solid  ma- 
hogany furniture,  and  better  solid  rounds  of  beef,  were 
prominent  features,  in  striking  contrast  to  the  gilt  rococo 
style  of  Parisian  anicublcment,  and  the  eternal  made-dishes 
of  which  the  Briton  of  the  true  type  soon  wearies. 

The  kindly  welcome  shining  out  of  his  father's  genial 
blue  eyes,  the  wholesome,  somewhat  boisterous,  jollity  of 


THE   MILLS    OF  THE    GODS.  115 


the  girls,  above  all,  the  sweet,  tender,  more  quiet  greeting 
of  Lydia,  wooed  him  irresistibly.  He  determined  to 
return  to  them,  but  first  he  would  just  step  around  to  the 
Cafe  du  Midi  and  hear  what  the  prospects  were  of  a  quiet 
night.  Resuming  his  coat,  and  taking  his  hat  and  a  stout 
stick,  he  sallied  forth. 

He  had  not  proceeded  far,  when  his  attention  was 
attracted  by  the  sound  of  low  moans,  which  seemed  to 
issue  from  the  inside  of  a  fiacre,  drawn  up  in  front  of  a 
house  nearly  opposite  his  own  quarters.  Several  men 
and  women  were  collected  about  the  open  door  of  the 
carriage,  apparently  disputing  as  to  the  best  means  of 
extricating  a  helpless  sufferer  within. 

With  one  or  two  strides  Ronald  reached  the  group,  and, 
with  one  or  two  decisive  words,  sent  the  disputatious 
inefficients  to  the  right-about,  saying,  simply,  to  a  white- 
haired  old  gentleman  who  stood  wringing  his  hands  in 
impotent  distress,  "  Je  suis  chirurgien,  monsieur." 

"Ah,  thank  God  !"  burst  from  the  old  man's  lips. 

"And,"  McDonald  added  in  English,  "if  you  will  go 
before  and  lead  the  way,  I  will  soon  carry  this  poor  child 
up  for  you." 

"Where  does  she  seem  to  be  most  hurt?"  he  asked  of 
Ernestine,  who  still  sat  in  the  carriage  supporting  Dora 
in  her  arms.  (Jacques  Toquelet  had  not  been  able  to 
resist  rushing  to  the  aid  of  a  brother-in-arms,  who  was 
being  overpowered  by  numbers  on  the  Pont-Neuf  as  they 
were  crossing.) 

"I  think,  sir,"  answered  Ernestine,  "her  shoulder  is 
out  of  place  and  her  arm  injured." 

"Sit  quite  still,  then,"  he  directed,  "and  hold  her 
shoulders  as  firmly  and  gently  as  possible." 

He  passed  his  arm  under  her,  and,  with  an  immense 
effort  of  strength,  drew  her  forth  without  more  movement 


Ii6  THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

than  was  indispensable.  Tlien,  preceded  by  the  old  father 
carrying  a  light,  and  followed  by  Ernestine,  he  mounted 
four  flights  of  stairs,  and  laid  poor  Dora  softly  down  on 
the  spotless  white-curtained  bed  in  her  own  neat  little 
room;  a  room  which,  even  in  that  first  moment  of  entering 
it,  seemed  to  impress  itself  upon  Ronald's  imagination  the 
childlike  innocence  and  purity  of  its  occupants.  There, 
in  a  tiny  cot,  lay  the  slumbering  Marian,  not  yet  undressed, 
but  with  tumbled  hair  and  flushed  cheeks,  in  the  uncon- 
scious grace  of  sleeping  childhood.  She  had  cried  herself 
to  sleep  an  hour  ago,  poor  little  tot,  when  mamma  failed 
to  come,  according  to  promise,  before  dinner,  and  grand- 
papa had  not  been  able  to  invent  answers  to  her  ceaseless 
questions  with  sufficient  rapidity. 

"  Bring  more  lights,"  commanded  Buchanan  ;  "  and," 
to  Ernestine,  "will  you  procure  a  pair  of  scissors,  please, 
at  once?"  She  disappeared  ;  returning  immediately  with 
the  desired  implement. 

After  he  had  cut  away  the  dress  from  the  arms  and 
shoulders,  he  found  that  the  collar-bone  was  broken  and 
that  she  was  much  bruised,  but  there  was  no  other  injury. 
He  ordered  Ernestine  to  lock  the  door  and  permit  no 
one  to  enter  (the  old  father  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
motionless),  until  he  could  go  in  search  of  necessary  band- 
ages, etc. 

In  a  moment  he  had  reached  his  own  room,  supplied 
himself  with  all  he  required, — including  a  small  flask  of 
very  fine  brandy, — and  returned  to  his  patient.  First 
pouring  out  a  little  of  the  brandy  in  a  glass,  he,  with  a 
spoon,  obliged  her  to  take  a  few  drops  at  a  time  until  she 
began  to  revive  again.  He  then  set  the  bone,  bandaged 
and  made  her  perfectly  comfortable,  with  a  dexterity 
which  proved  his  excellent  instruction. 

"  Une  toute  petite  tasse  de  bouillon  a  present,"  he  whis- 


THE  MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 


117 


pered  to  Ernestine,  who  stood  by  with  ready  hand  and 
sparkling  eyes,  watching  his  every  movement  with  undis- 
guised admiration.  She  flew  to  do  his  bidding,  and  when 
she  returned  with  a  bowl  of  delicate  soup,  Ronald  sat  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed  and  fed  the  rapidly-recovering  Dora 
with  spoonfuls  of  the  nourishing  beverage.  As  the  last 
mouthful  was  administered  he  asked,  with  the  rarely  sweet 
smile  softening  his  grave  face,  "Should  you  like  to  kiss 
baby  now  and  go  to  sleep?" 

Ernestine  had  taken  up  the  little  one  and  inducted  her 
into  her  little  night-gown,  and  washed  the  hands  and  face, 
and  brushed  the  untidy  hair,  and  was  now  talking  in  a 
subdued  whisper  to  her  in  a  distant  corner. 

"Oui,  cherie,  tu  vas  voir  maman  tout  de  suite;  elle  est 
la-bas  couchee,  vois-tu,  et  si  tu  es  sage,  bien  sage,  tu  vas 
I'embrasser  avant  de  dormir." 

A  grateful  smile  broke  over  Dora's  pale  face  at  the 
thoughtful  suggestion  of  the  young  surgeon. 

"Bring  the  child,  tna fille ;  viejis, petite,  maman- ca.nnot 
sleep  until  she  kisses  you;  gently  now,  gently;  don't 
move." 

He  took  the  little  white-robed  cherub  in  his  arms  and, 
bending  over  the  bed,  allowed  the  child  to  kiss  and  fondle 
her  mother  without  leaning  on  her.  Tears  of  delight  filled 
the  beautiful  hazel  eyes. 

"  Assez,  assez,"  cried  the  young  man.  "Couchez-la 
bien  vite,  mademoiselle,"  and  he  restored  her  to  Ernes- 
tine's arms,  who  replaced  her  in  her  cot  drawn  up  close 
to  the  other  side  of  the  bed. 

Then,  with  a  quiet  "Good-evening,  niadame,  I  will  see 
you  in  the  morning,"  and  a  bow  to  the  old  gentleman, 
Ronald  departed  ;  but  not  to  the  Cafe  du  Mitli;  back  to 
his  den  au  cinquiemc,  to  indite  a  few  lines  to  1-ydia.  In 
half  a  dozen  concise  sentences  he  informed  her  that  it 


iiS  THE  MILLS   OF  THE   GODS. 

would  be  impossible  for  him  to  leave  Paris  before  the 
siege.  "  Only  one  thing  could  deprive  me  of  the  pleasure 
of  witnessing  your  well-earned  happiness,  my  dearest 
sister,"  he  wrote,  "and  that  is  a  conviction  of  the  abso- 
lute necessity  of  my  remaining  here.  Fate  has  decided 
the  question  ;  there  is  work  for  me  to  do  here,  and  no 
other  hand  to  do  it,  and  I  iTiust  stay.  Some  day,  please 
God,  I  shall  tell  you  all  about  it ;  for  the  present,  believe 
that  my  heart  is  with  you.  Love  to  my  father  and  the 
girls ;  as  to  Paul — he  is  too  happy  to  need  a  message  from 
your  brother,  Ronald  Buchanan. 


1 1 


In  passing  out  of  the  opposite  house  that  night,  Ronald 
had  exchanged  a  few  words  with  the  porteress  which  ma- 
terially assisted  in  forming  his  decision. 

"Ah,  monsieur,"  began  the  voluble  old  woman,  "what 
a  misfortune  for  the  poor  lady  up-stairs  !  So  sweet  she  is, 
too, — a  veritable  angel  I  assure  you,  monsieur  ;  so  kind  to 
everybody,  with  such  a  gentle  way  with  her,  and " 

"Who  is  she?"  interrupted  Ronald.  "  What  does  she 
call  herself?" 

"  I  know  not,  monsieur;  the  old  gentleman  her  father's 
name  is  Fairfax." 

"And  her  husband,  where  is  he?"  asked  Ronald. 

The  old  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  looked 
wicked.  "Ah,  I  have  not  seen  him;  the  husband  of  a 
beautiful  English  girl  with  such  a  grand  air  about  her 
don't  bring  her  to  the  Latin  quarter  ;  and  she  does  not 
wear  the  English  mourning  of  the  widow ;  but  the  little 
child  is  hers  {Ah  quel  anj^e  cctte  petile  !)\  and  she  seems 
quite  quiet  and  respectable  ;  sees  no  company,  monsieur; 
and  never  goes  out  without  the  child  and  le  vieux,  until 
this  unhai)py  day,  when  she  started  early  in  the  morning 
alone,  and  came  back  this  evening  ;   tiuis " 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  119 

"And  her  father," — Ronald  hesitated,  and  then  re- 
sumed, '*  does  he  seem  to  have  means?  her  room  was  very 

small." 

''Ah,  mon  Dieu  T  began  the  old  woman,  "they  are 
poor,  for  I  have  seen  the  young  lady  painting  pictures 
in  her  room,  which  they  take  away  afterwards,  I  am  sure, 
to  sell ;  and  I  have  got  her  lace  to  mend,  too,  for  les 
grandes  dames,  who  have  now  all  gone  out  of  ce pauvre 
Paris." 

Slipping  a  napoleon  in  her  hand  and  adjuring  her  to  let 
the  lady  want  nothing  that  could  be  procured,  Ronald 
waited  to  hear  no  more. 

His  mind  was  made  up  :  he  would  stay. 


CHAPTER     VI. 

The  next  morning  dawned  bright  and  clear ;  and  as 
Ronald  Buchanan  took  his  early  breakfast  of  rolls  and 
coffee  at  the  Cafe  Henri  Quatre,  he  gathered  from  the 
eager  voices  about  him  an  indication  of  the  turmoil  which 
the  events  of  yesterday  had  stirred  in  the  heart  of  Paris. 

Perceiving  at  a  distant  table  a  confrere  of  the  knife, 
also  an  Englishman,  he  gathered  up  liis  Journal  Officiel 
and  made  his  way  through  the  vociferous  throng  to  his 
side. 

"Ah,  good-day  to  you,  my  dear  fellow,"  joyfully  ex- 
claimed Richard  Ogilvie,  rising  and  drawing  a  chair  to 
the  table  for  his  friend.  "  'Gad,  it's  as  good  as  a  bottle 
of  champagne  to  a  thirsty  soul  to  see  your  face  here  still ; 
I  thought  you  meant  to  get  back  to  the  paternal  roof- 
tree." 


I20  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

"I  have  changed  my  mind,  Dick,  and  intend  to  stay 
and  see  how  you  bear  starvation.  You  remain,  do  you 
not?" 

"Of  course;  wouldn't  miss  it  for  the  world;  it's  just 
the  sort  of  thing  for  a  man  to  look  back  upon  and  yarn 
about  to  his  grandchildren,  you  see;  and,  du  resic,  if 
harm  comes  to  me,  who  cares?"  This  with  a  pathetic 
sigh  and  a  comically  lugubrious  expression,  which  made 
Ronald  smile. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself,  Dick  ? 
You  have  not  been  at  the  hospitals  for  days.  Are  you 
growing  lazy  in  your  old  age?" 

"  Not  I ;  I  have  had  '  other  fish  to  fry.'  "  He  helped 
himself  to  another  rognon  aux  champignons,  and  Ronald 
asked,  "What  do  you  mean  to  do,  Dick?  The  siege 
seems  inevitable  before  long,  and  then  Heaven  knows 
what  comes  next  on  the  programme.  At  all  events,  there 
will  be  plenty  of  wounds  to  dress  and  limbs  to  ampu- 
tate." 

"No  doubt,  dear  old  boy;  but  I  don't  propose  to 
dress  any  limbs  but  my  own,  or  amputate  any — wounds," 
cried  Dick,  confusedly,  beckoning  to  the  gar^on  to  settle 
his  bill.  "I  want  to  fight,  and  I  a//// fight, — National 
Guard,  Mobiles, — anything,  so  that  I  can  see  the  fun; 
(four  francs  fifty  centimes  for  a  breakfast,  and  the  siege 
imminent:  what  do  you  think  of  that,  you  old  ancho- 
rite?)— here  !"  spinning  almost  his  last  five-franc  piece  to 
the  obsequious  garq-on.  "Yes,"  he  concluded,  "there's 
time  enough  for  the  sawbones  when  I  go  back  to  Eng- 
land,— if  I  ever  do  go  b:u  k"  (another  plaintive  sigh); 
"  one  don't  meet  a  cliance  like  tliis  often,  and  I  have  liad 
some  experience,  you  kn(jw"  flie  was  captain  of  a  militia 
company  at  home). 

"  I  am  sorry,  Dick,  very  sorry,"   answered  his  friend; 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  121 

"  we  will  not  meet  often,  I  fear  ;  and  I  had  quite  counted 
on  you  as  a  collaborateur,  for  I  mean  to  do  the  good 
Samaritan, — though  your  prospect  docs  look  tempting  !" 
This  with  the  genuine  sigh  of  the  Briton  when  he  re- 
nounces, of  liis  tree  will,  the  belligerent  anticipations 
which  are  so  seductive  to  his  nation. 

"Not  meet  often?  What  can  you  mean?  You  are 
not  going  into  a  monastery,  are  you  ?  And  I  am  cer- 
tainly not  intent  upon  being  riddled  by  the  first  fire. 
Now  see  here,  old  man,  we  will  make  a  standing  engage- 
ment to  dine  here  every  day  together,  at  six  o'clock,  and 
recount  our  adventures.     Have  you  any  money?" 

*'A  little.     I  never  have  very  much,  you  remember." 

"Yes,  I  remember;  and  I  also  bear  somewhere  in  my 
memory  the  fact  that  I  rarely  have  any, — but  I'll  share  it 
with  you  to  the  last  penny,  Ronald,  my  boy ;  I  will,  in- 
deed," quite  gravely. 

"  Thanks  ;  I  am  sure  you  would,"  replied  Ronald,  with 
equal  gravity. 

"  I  say,"  burst  out  Dick,  "it's  almost  too  early  in  the 
day  for  champagne,  isn't  it?  but  I  shotild  like  to  crack  a 
bottle  with  you  later, — I  have  a  napoleon  somewhere  at 
home, — just  in  honor  of  this  joyful  surprise  you  brought 
me.  Really,"  seizing  Ronald's  hand  and  shaking  it 
again  vehemently,  while  every  feature  of  his  face  beamed 
with  good  nature,  "  this  is  very  jolly,  isn't  it?" 

"Calm  yourself,  my  dear  fellow;  we  will  dine  here  to- 
gether at  six,  and  you  shall  have  your  bottle; — but  in  the 
mean  time  be  reasonable.  The  news  to-day  is  gloomy 
enough,  and  there  seems  to  be  no  little  excitement  in  the 
streets." 

"Oh,  it's  all  ;v/,"  pronounced  Dick.  "  There  was  a 
mob  outside  the  Hotel  de  Ville  at  midnight, — and  for 
what?     Because    these    idiots   cannot    understand    that 

F  I  I 


122  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

Trochu  and  the  other  fellow — the  war-minister,  Palikao — 
will  not  undertake  the  salvation  of  the  city  according  to 
their  judgments;  who  would?  If  Wellington,  George 
Washington,  and  the  first  Napoleon  united  in  one  effort 
to  save  Paris,  these  fools  would  circumvent  them,  and  de- 
stroy it  in  the  way  which  pleased  them  best." 

"Don't  be  too  hard  on  them,  Dick;  they  can't  help 
it;  it's  in  the  blood.  They  do  not  understand;  and  not 
understanding,  they  fear;  and  fearing,  they  become  furi- 
ous  "  ("And  furious,  they  become  fiends,"  interpo- 
lated Dick).  "  Why,  early  as  it  is,  Belleville  and  Mont- 
Martre  are  pouring  their  incendiary  rabble  through  all 
Paris,  stirring  up  the  people  by  the  irresistible  contagion 
of  their  example, — vowing  vengeance  upon  whom,  or 
what,  I  have  not  been  able  to  find  out." 

"Nor  you  won't  be,  either;  they  don't  know  them- 
selves. They  will  surround  tlio  hall  of  the  Corps  L^gis- 
latif  and  yell  their  menaces  and  shout  their  maledictions, 
which  fall  equally  on  Napoleon  and  Trochu, — on  the  Ger- 
mans and  the  French  army, — on  all  and  everything  under 
the  sun, — and  then  they  will  shake  their  fists  at  the  fagade 
of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  commence  again  da  capo ;  but 
if  they  were  frankly  asked  what  they  demanded,  they 
would  only  glare  at  you  and  liowl  out  their  favorite 
meaningless  threat,  ^  Decheance  !'  " 

By  this  time  the  cafe  was  deserted ;  everybody  having 
breakfasted  and  delivered  himself  of  a  separate  opinion 
on  the  condition  of  things,  had  gone  out  to  gather  fresh 
subjects  for  argument  before  the  dinner-hour. 

Our  two  friends  separated  after  a  few  more  words  and  a 
renewal  of  the  promise  to  meet  at  six  o'clock,  Ronald 
making  liis  way  back  to  the  old  city,  and  Dick  going 
towanls  the  liead-quarters  of  the  National  Guards. 

As  Ronakl  mounted  the  staircase  leading  to  the  room 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


123 


where  he  had  left  Dora  sinking  into  tranquil  shunbcr  the 
night  before,  he  felt  a  curious  sensation  of  delight  and 
timidity  which  was  new  to  him.  Indeed,  the  sweet  face 
and  gentle  voice  had  not  been  absent  from  his  mind,  sleep- 
ing or  waking,  during  many  minutes  since  he  had  closed 
the  door  between  them  and  himself. 

He  hesitated  a  moment  at  the  door,  overcome  by  a 
strange  repugnance,  but  with  an  impatient  "  Bah  !"  at  his 
unwonted  weakness,  he  knocked  gently.  The  figure  of  a 
young  woman  in  the  garb  of  a  Sister  of  Charity,  with  the 
white-winged  cap  of  the  order  upon  her  head,  appeared  at 
the  opening.     "  Monsieur  le  Docteur?"  she  asked,  softly. 

"  Oui,  ma  scKiir,''^  replied  Ronald,  to  whom  the  appa- 
rition was  a  familiar  one  in  the  hospitals. 

"  Entrez  done,  je  vous  en  prie,"  she  whispered. 
"Madame  est  tres-souffrante :  she  has  fever,  you  see,  and 
is  quite  out  of  her  head." 

He  approached  tlie  bed  and  looked  at  her  a  moment, 
silently.  How  beautiful  slie  was,  l\ing  with  her  head 
thrown  back,  and  the  masses  of  chestnut  hair  flung  loosely 
over  the  pillows,  with  a  deep  carmine  glow  in  the  cheeks 
and  parted  lips,  and  the  exquisite  eyes  brilliant  with  fever ! 
She  was  not  lying  comfortably,  but  he  dared  not  touch  her. 

"Raise  her,  ma  sceur,  her  head  is  too  much  thrown 
back;"  and  as  she  obeyed  him,  he  continued:  "When 
did  this  fever  come  on, — how  long  ago?" 

"About  midnight,  sir,"  she  answered.  "  I  came  home 
and  found  my  poor  friend  (for  we  have  been  friends,  sir, 
for  three  months),  last  evening,  about  eight  o'clock  (just 
after  you  left  her),  in  such  sad  plight,  and  heard  of  her 
terrible  accident  (she  was  asleep,  but  a  good  woman,  a 
Madame  Picot,  I  think  it  was,  told  me  the  particulars), 
and  also  that  she  was  obliged  to  return  home  for  tlic 
night,  and  begged  me  to  watch  witli  this  pour  (  hild.     (^f 


124 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE   GODS. 


course  I  consented.  I  have  not  worn  this  dress  many 
days,  monsieur,  but  this  is  not  my  first  experience  in 
nursing.  I  shall  not  leave  her,  with  your  permission,  un- 
til she  is  quite  well  again."  He  could  not  resist  taking 
her  hand  in  his.  I  think  if  it  had  not  been  for  that  in- 
convenient coif\\t  would  have  kissed  her  in  his  gratitude. 

*'  Thank  you,  ma  sceur,  you  are  an  angel  of  goodness; 
that  poor  soul  seemed  utterly  friendless  and  forsaken." 
He  looked  narrowly  at  her;  something  in  her  accent  had 
struck  upon  his  acute  ear.  "Pardon  me,  but  are  you 
frafi(aise  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,  monsieur;  my  mother  was  English,  and,"  whis- 
pering, with  a  glance  around,  as  if  afraid,  "my  father 
was  rt!  German.  They  are  both  dead;"  and  she  added, 
simply,  "  my  name  is  Agnes." 

He  was  writing  a  prescription,  but  looked  up  here,  and 
said,  "  You  speak  English,  then,  do  you  not  ?  That  will  be 
a  great  comfort  to  this  poor  girl  during  her  illness." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  "  I  always  spoke  it  as  a  child  ; 
but,"  she  continued,  anxiously,  "you  do  not  think  there 
in  any  danger  of  serious  illness,  do  you,  doctor?" 

"I  cannot  tell  yet;  I  fear  there  is  some  nervous 
trouble.  Has  she  had  a  shock  of  any  kind,  other  than  her 
accident?     The  brain,  I  am  afraid,  is  affected." 

"  Nothing  that  I  know  of,  sir;  she  seemed  always  very 
sad  and  quiet,  and  I  know  nothing  of  her  history  ;  I  only 
know  that  she  is  the  very  sweetest,  purest-hearted  woman 
in  the  world,  and  that  I  love  her  dearly."  Tears  stood 
in  the  bright  blue  eyes,  and  the  firm  lips  trembled.  She 
bent  over  the  bed  and  wet  the  parched  mouth  of  her 
friend  with  some  cooling  iisanc  to  hide  her  unwonted 
agitation. 

"Will  you  see  that  this  prescription  is  filled  at  once, 
please?"    He  handed  her  a  paper,  and  she  left  the  room. 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  125 

Ronald  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  Oppo- 
site he  could  see  the  casement  at  which  he  had  sat  dream- 
ing the  evening  before ;  how  long  ago  it  seemed  !  He 
could  scarcely  believe  it  possible  that  such  a  revolution 
could  take  place  in  a  human  being  in  such  a  trifling  space 
of  time.  What  was  it?  What  was  this  new  life  which 
seemed  to  course  through  his  veins  like  liquid  fire?  He 
felt  suffocated;  the  window  was  open,  and  he  leaned  out 
as  far  as  possible  in  the  vain  endeavor  to  breathe  more 
freely. 

What  had  come  to  him  ?  He,  the  earnest  student,  the 
unimpressionable,  methodical,  frugal-minded  philosopher, 
the  man  who  had  lived  two  years  in  the  Latin  quarter  in 
Paris,  not  perhaps  in  exact  imitation  of  St.  Simeon  on  his 
forty  years'  pillar  of  renunciation,  but  at  least  exempt 
from  active  complicity  in  the  mad  excesses  and  reck- 
less orgies  which  were  wont  to  make  "  night  hideous,"  in 
that  quarter  of  merry  Bohemianism.  He  had  not  rubbed 
the  bloom  off  pleasure  in  contact  with  men  or  women,  who 
so  often  in  that  process  evince  a  perseverance  and  energy 
worthy  of  a  better  cause.  And  never  since  he  had  as- 
sumed the  toga  virilis  of  manhood,  and  taken  up  cud- 
gels in  his  own  defense  against  the  world,  the  flesh,  and 
the  devil,  had  a  woman  caused  his  heart  to  beat  more 
swiftly  ;  nor  had  his  sleep  been  haunted  by  a  vision  such 
as  the  last  night  had  brought  him. 

Alas,  he  had  taken  the  disease  in  its  worst  form.  They 
are  not  the  Lovelaces  of  the  world  who  fall  hopeless  vic- 
tims to  this  fatal  malady;  they  are  the  Galahads,  who, 
when  the  symptoms  manifest  themselves  in  earnest,  rarely 
recover;  never,  indeed,  without  carrying  the  pit-marks  to 
the  grave. 

To  Ronald's  excited  imagination  the  open  window  of 

his  own   room   seemed  to  grin  at    him  wilh  a  sardonic 

ii-x- 


126  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

sneer ;    he  turned   impatiently  his  back   to  its  mocking 
suggestiveness,  and  surveyed  the  room  of  his  patient. 

It  was  a  room  destitute  of  luxury,  and  j'et  with  that 
indefinable  aroma  of  refinement  about  it, — like  the  odor 
which  betrays  the  violet  hidden  from  sight  in  its  leafy 
covert, — which  many  gorgeous  salons  lack. 

On  the  white-washed  walls  hung  a  couple  of  fine  copies 
of  the  Mater  Dolorosa  and  Guido's  Magdalen.  Under 
them  were  suspended  shelves  of  the  beautiful  Mosaic  wood 
of  Sorrento,  filled  with  plain  copies  of  Milton  and  Dante, 
with  Petrarch's  Sonnets  in  Italian  ;  of  Goethe,  Schiller, 
and  the  divine  Jean  Paul — in  their  own  tongue  ;  of  Racine 
and  Moliere,  of  Lamartine  and  De  Stael,  with  a  huge 
Byron,  and  a  well-worn  Shakspetire. 

The  floor  was  carpetless, — circc,  according  to  French 
custom,  and  scrupulously  clean.  On  the  mantel-shelf  stood 
a  delicate  clock  of  Genoese  silver  filigree ;  and  over  it 
hung  a  faded  miniature  on  ivory,  exquisitely  painted,  of 
her  dead  mother's  face. 

On  a  little  table  by  the  Avindow  stood  a  china  bowl  of 
sweet-scented  roses,  a  portfolio  of  sketches,  and  a  little 
worn  Bible  with  her  mother's  maiden  name  on  the  title- 
page.  In  one  corner  reposed  an  easel,  with  palette  hung 
upon  it ;  in  the  other,  the  white-draped  cot  of  little 
Marian. 

Ronald  took  in  every  detail  of  this  simple  room,  and 
did  not  fail  to  draw  therefrom  some  index  of  the  character 
and  tastes  of  its  occupant.  He  was  lost  in  a  maze  of  con- 
jecture and  pitying  wonder,  when  the  door  opened,  and 
Sister  Agnes  entered,  with  that  noiseless  and  elastic  step 
of  a  gentle  but  self-reliant  nature. 

Reader,  have  you  ever  observed  what  expression  there 
is  in  a  footstep?  There  are  women,  beautiful  women 
too,    who   stamp   through   the   world   on    the   nerves  and 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  127 

senses  of  their  acquaintance,  quite  unconsciously;  and 
there  are  others  who  shuffle  through  hfe  in  an  eternal 
down-at-heel  style,  which  causes  one  to  wax  profane  when 
its  influence  is  brought  to  bear  upon  one's  irritated  sensi- 
bilities; and  again,  there  are  women  who  glide  along  by 
your  side  with  the  long,  sinuous  step  which  reminds  one 
irresistibly  of  the  old  serpent,  and  causes  one  to  shrink 
away  involuntarily  from  its  deadly  fascination. 

But  there  is  a  step  which  belongs  only  to  the  slender 
foot  with  the  arched  instep,  which  almost  invariably  goes 
in  the  set  with  the  long,  slender,  tapering-fingered  hand, 
the  small,  well-set  head,  and  the  delicate-lobed  ears,  which 
indicates  poetic  fancy,  keenly  perceptive  faculties  of  mind, 
ar,d  tender  acutely-sensitive  properties  of  heart ;  the  silent 
but  springy,  yet  firm,  footstep  of  a  thoroughly  harmonious 
woman. 

There  has  been  much  said  in  favor  of  a  softly  modu- 
lated feminine  voice;  it  is  no  doubt  "an  excellent  thing;" 
but,  reader,  when  my  nervous  system  breaks  down,  I  fancy 
I  shall  go  to — Andalusia. 

Ronald  was  not  so  far  lost  in  his  dream  that  he  did  not 
note  this  peculiarity  of  the  fair  Sister, — as  she  moved 
lightly  about  the  room,  preparing  the  draught  which  she 
had  procured,  with  deft  fingers. 

After  it  was  administered,  and  the  effect  watched  anx- 
iously, Ronald,  promising  to  return  before  evening,  was 
about  to  leave  the  room,  when,  actuated  by  a  sudden 
thought,  he  turned  abruptly  to  Agnes  and  asked,  "Pardon 
me,  via  smir,  but  will  you  tell  me  where  and  how  you 
became  acquainted  with  this  poor  girl?" 

"I  met  her,"  she  replied,  "in  the  Gallery  of  the 
Louvre  immediately  after  she  came  to  Paris ;  I  used  to 
go  there  frequently  to  paint.  She  was  copying  Murillo's 
Madonna,  so  was  I ;  our  easels  stood  side  by  side ;  after 


128  THE  MILLS   OF   TILE    GODS. 

awhile  our  liearts  touched, — and  we  have  been  friends 
ever  since.  There  has  not  been  a  day  that  we  have  not 
met  and  talked  together,  and  that  I  have  not  loved  her 
more  and  more."     She  stopped,  blushing  slightly. 

"You  did  not  go  alone  to  the  Louvre?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no;  I  was  still  at  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred 
Heart,  where  I  was  educated,  and  I  had  always  one  of  the 
lower  order  of  nuns,  who  act  as  bonnes,  to  go  with  me ; 
and,"  she  continued,  "it  was  a  stipulation  of  my  father's 
before  he  died,  and  left  me,  a  child  of  thirteen,  together 
with  my  mother's  little  fortune,  to  the  good  Sisters,  that 
when  I  became  eighteen  I  should  be  free  to  cultivate  my 
taste  for  art, — which  I  had,  even  as  a  child, — and  to  choose 
between  the  life  of  the  convent  and  the  life  of  honest  labor. 
I  chose  the  labor  !" 

He  looked  at  her  admiringly.  "You  are  right,  per- 
fectly right,"  he  said;  "the  world  is  big,  and  there  is 
always  room  for  you  in  it,  outside  that  living  tomb." 

Many  times,  in  the  future  years,  Agnes  recalled  those 
words  of  encouragement  and  cheer. 

"  Your  father  was  a  German,  I  think  you  told  me?" 
pursued  Ronald. 

"Yes;  he  was  an  author,  a  painter,  an  enthusiast,  and 
he  shared  the  fate  of  most  of  these :  he  died  poor  and 
unappreciated.  He  had  no  relatives  living  who  were 
willing  to  burden  themselves  with  an  orphan  child,  so  I 
was  put  in  the  convent,  where  I  have  been  very  happy, — 
even  though  I  have  held  fast  to  my  promise  made  when 
my  father  died,  never  to  abjure  his  faith,  and  that  of  my 
mother, — for  I  am  a  Protestant,  monsieur,  though  I  wear 
this  dress  as  a  protection,  and  a  means  of  doing  some 
good  in  the  hospitals,  since  I  left  the  convent." 

"And  where  do  you  live  now?"  asked  Ronald,  sur- 
prised at  the  young  girl's  intrepidity. 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


129 


She  smiled.  "I  live  here  with  Dora  now,  since  these 
riots  began  in  Paris,  in  this  dear  little  room;  I  spend 
my  days  at  the  hospitals.  I  have  seen  you  many  times, 
sir;  but  this  screen,"'  pointing  to  her  snowy  coif,  "is 
useful  sometimes,  in  shielding  one  from  observation." 

"It  shall  not  shield  you  again  from  me,"  he  answered, 
with  a  bright  look.  "You  are  too  good  a  nurse  to  be 
overlooked."  He  was  watching  her  at  that  moment  as 
she  raised,  just  enough,  the  head  of  her  friend  and  gave 
her  a  few  drops  of  a  cool  tisane. 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  the  old  gentle- 
man he  had  observed  the  evening  before,  entered,  leading 
by  the  hand  a  beautiful  little  girl  of  four  years  old. 

"How  do  you  find  your  patient  to-day,  doctor?"  he 
asked  anxiously,  but  in  a  whisper. 

"She  has  some  fever,"  answered  Ronald;  "owing, 
probably,  to  the  length  of  time  which  elapsed  before  the 
bone  was  set,  or  to  her  fright ;  but  I  trust  that  the  ano- 
dyne she  has  just  taken  may  produce  sleep,  and  she  will 
before  this  time  to-morrow  be  on  the  road  to  recovery." 

"  It  appears,"  explained  her  father,  "from  the  woman's 
account  who  brought  her  home,  that  she  was  overtaken  in 
the  Rue  de  Rivoli  by  a  mob,  and  fell  under  their  feet." 

Ronald  shuddered.  "It  is  probable.  These  French 
are  very  fiends  in  their  fury."  With  a  few  more  words, 
and  a  last  look  at  Dora,  now  calmly  sleeping,  he  reiterated 
his  directions  and  went  away. 


F* 


I30 


THE  MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 


CHAPTER    VI  I. 

A  FORTNIGHT  has  passed,  a  fortnight  prolific  in  events 
bearing  upon  the  future  destinies  of  the  French  people. 
The  Emperor,  striving  in  vain  to  find  consolation  for  his 
misfortunes  in  his  fatalistic  theories,  outwardly  bore  his 
imprisonment  at  Wilhelmshohe  with  characteristic  philoso- 
phy. King  William,  proclaimed  emperor,  was  following 
up,  by  other  victories,  the  conquest  of  Sedan.  The  Em- 
press Eugenie  had  fled,  and  Lord  Lyons  was  again  advising 
all  English  loiterers  to  follow  her  example.  General 
Trochu  had  accepted  the  position  at  the  head  of  the 
National  defense. 

Flourens,  the  idol  of  the  Belleville  insurgents,  had  been 
placed  at  the  head  of  five  battalions  of  National  Guards, 
in  which  Dick  Ogilvie  held  the  rank  of  captain. 

The  discontent  and  rebellion  in  the  heart  of  Paris 
seethed  and  bubbled,  and  threatened  to  overflow  every- 
thing, when,  on  the  19th,  the  iron  cordon  was  drawn 
around  her, — now  passive  through  despair, — and  she  was 
completely  invested  by  the  invincible  enemy. 

At  first,  people  looked  at  each  otlier  in  blank  dismay ; 
then  the  blood  which  had  flowed  on  numberless  victori- 
ous fields,  in  the  days  gone  by,  rose  in  frantic  indigna- 
tion at  the  thought  of  a  foreign  yoke;  and,  with  one 
accord,  they  rent  the  air  witli  shouts  of  defiance,  and 
registered  a  vow  in  each  individual  heart  that  want, 
disease,  famine  should  be  welcomed  before  the  barbarian 
horde  should  marcli  exultantly  tln-ough  their  beloved 
Paris  ! 

Of  their   indomitable  courage,  of  their   Spartan    en- 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


131 


durance,  they  made  no  vain  boast.  There  is  something 
classic  in  the  French  character  when  it  rises  to  the 
sublime  ! 

Poor  Dora,  unable  to  escape  from  Paris,  was  just 
emerging,  white  and  frail  as  a  spirit,  from  the  dread  valley 
of  the  shadow,  where  she  had  wrestled  through  the  last 
fortnight  with  the  great  Destroyer,  and  now,  thanks  to 
Ronald's  skill  and  ceaseless  vigilance  and  Agnes's  careful 
nursing,  the  fever  had  left  her,  and  the  poor  brain  was  at 
rest. 

Weak  and  helpless  as  a  little  child  she  lay,  watching 
Marian  as  she  flitted  about  in  the  sunshine,  which  poured 
its  cheering  rays  into  her  little  room,  creating  a  halo 
around  the  golden  head,  and  touching  into  a  silvery  glory 
the  white  hair  of  her  old  father,  who  sat  in  an  arm-chair 
by  the  window,  gazing  listlessly  into  the  street. 

Agnes,  with  her  coif  laid  aside  and  her  rich,  brown 
hair  tucked  away  behind  her  tiny  ears  in  many  a  coil  and 
braid,  sat  at  the  bedside  arranging,  in  a  bowl,  some  fresh 
Provencal  roses  which  had  just  been  presented  by  the 
good  old  porteress. 

Their  fragrance  filled  the  room,  and  Dora,  stretching 
out  a  fragile  little  hand,  took  one  full-bloomed  beauty 
and  pressed  it  to  her  lips  and  eyes,  inhaling  its  perfume 
with  delight. 

"  How  doubly  sweet  they  seem  to  me  !"  she  murmured. 
"Oh,  Agnes,  is  not  the  perfume  of  flowers  the  incense 
offered  up  to  God  by  the  universe  ?  In  the  early  morning 
and  the  dewy  evening,  after  the  matin  and  the  vesper 
hymn,  the  flowers  grow  sweetest  in  yielding  up  their  mute 
thanksgiving." 

"Yes,  Dora,  you  are  right;  all  growing  things,  from 
the  noblest  tree  to  the  tiniest  blade  of  grass,  point  up- 
ward, and  have  a  solemn  significance  in  so  doing.     In  my 


132  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

opinion,  an  atheist  must  be  blind,  eye-blind  as  well  as 
soul-blind,  to  Nature  and  her  eloquent  teachings.  All 
innocent  things  love  and  understand  Nature :  old  people 
who  are  standing  on  the  threshold  of  heaven,  and  little 
children, — and  we  must  become  like  them  we  are  told. 
You  remember  what  your  favorite,  Jean  Paul,  says, — 
"Most  people  cannot  see  the  sun,  but  it  shines  into  the 
heart  of  a  little  child." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know  it.  Oh,  those  happy  days  in  Italy, 
when  life  seemed  one  eternal  hymn  of  thanksgiving  ;  when 
I  sang  in  those  grand  choirs  with  such  a  joyous,  untroubled 
heart,  I  used  to  feel,  Agnes,  as  if  I  needed  only  the 
wings  to  soar  away  to  perfect  bliss!  Ah  me!"  she 
sighed  deeply. 

"You  must  think  only  of  the  sunshine,  darling;  let 
the  shadows  pass  away.  You  have  youth  and  life,  thank 
God,  and  Marian  and  your  father  left." 

"  And  you,  Agnes, — ah,  don't  forget  one  of  my  greatest 
blessings ;  and  you  have  no  one  in  all  this  great,  full 
world  but  me." 

"And  God,"  murmured  Agnes,  reverently. 

She  rose  to  put  by  the  flowers,  as  the  door  opened  and 
Buchanan  entered. 

An  angelic  smile  lit  up  Dora's  wan  face  as  he  approached 
her,  as  she  lay  white  and  delicate  as  the  rose  she  still  held 
in  her  hand.  \ 

"Are  you  feeling  a  little  stronger  to-day?"  he  asked, 
while  his  smile  answered  hers;  "and  have  these  noisy 
fellows  outside  disturbed  you  much?" 

A  band  of  riotous  gamins,  accompanied  by  fife  and 
drum,  and  screaming  women,  and  hooting  children,  passed 
under  the  window  at  that  moment.  She  waited  a  little, 
and  then  replied, — 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am  much  better  to-day.     Indeed,  you  must 


THE  MILLS    OF   THE    GODS.  133 

not  let  me  be  such  a  tax  upon  your  time  while  so  many 
need  you  more.     I  do  not  believe  you  have  a  moment's 

rest." 

He  looked  worn  and  thin.  During  all  those  days  and 
nights  of  suspense,  when  her  life  had  hung  upon  a  thread, 
he  had  not  known  rest  indeed.  But  now,  to  see  her  smile 
once  more,  to  see  the  eyes  beam  with  intelligence  instead 
of  that  fearful  vacancy  or  that  gaze  of  frantic  terror,  were 
enough  to  renew  his  life  within  him.  In  these  two  weeks 
of  agony  his  existence  had  become  absorbed  into  hers. 
Surely  the  plant  of  love  grows  apace  when  watered  by 
tears ! 

"Will  the  siege  last  long,  sir?"  asked  Mr.  Fairfax, 
coming  forward  feebly.  "We  wish  to  get  away  from 
Paris  as  soon  as  possible ;  indeed,  neither  Dora  nor  I 
could  bear  a  winter  here." 

"  I  cannot  possibly  tell,"  answered  Ronald,  "  how  long 
we  will  be  shut  up ;  possibly  for  many  weeks.  All  de- 
pends upon  the  success  of  the  French  army  outside,  and, 
according  to  the  last  telegrams,  there  has  been  nothing 
very  encouraging." 

"Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  if  we  had  only  remained  at 
Tours !  Ah,  Dora,  it  will  be  terrible  for  you,  my 
child." 

She  simply  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it  silently;  she 
was  thinking  of  him,  not  of  herself.  He  smiled  and 
passed  his  hand  softly  over  her  hair  once  or  twice,  then 
drawing  a  chair  forward, — close  to  Ronald, — he  continued 
speaking  in  the  low,  dreamy  tone  of  a  thinker  who  sel- 
dom finds  opportunity  of  expressing  his  views:  "It  is 
astonishing  to  me  that  France  needs  this  baptism  of  blood 
so  often  ;  that  she  does  require  it  from  time  to  time  is  in- 
disputable,— that  the  plethora  which  is  so  rapid  in^  this 
country  should  not  produce  apoplexy,  and   so  terminate 

12 


134 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


the  existence  of  this  hot-headed  people; — a  metaphor 
borrowed  from  your  experience,  doctor,"  he  smiled. 

And  Ronald  answered  in  the  same  vein  :  "  So  you  think 
that  the  sword  is  the  point  around  which  cluster  the 
greatness  and  power  of  a  nation  ?  I  agree  with  you 
entirely ;  a  little  blood-letting  is  indispensable  to  the 
sanitary  condition  of  the  world.'/ 

"Undoubtedly;  did  not  the  Romans  understand  this 
when  they  made  valor  and  virtue  synonymous?  And 
when — at  the  height  of  their  glory,  peace  reigned  and 
luxurious  voluptuousness  crept  in — the  sword  fell  from 
their  enervated  hands,  was  not  their  degeneration  swift 
and  sure  ?" 

"And,"  pursued  Ronald,  "there  is  no  doubt  that  the 
warlike  peoples — those  that  are  strongest  in  standing 
army  and  ready  fleet — are  the  most  progressive,  and  held 
in  highest  respect." 

"You  are  right,"  returned  the  old  gentleman  ;  "look 
at  the  Levant ;  the  Levantines,  who  know  not  the  mean- 
ing of  the  word  war,  are  they  not  deep  sunk  in  the  sloth 
of  an  indolent  epicureanism  ?  Even  the  Alexandrians 
rarely  quit  their  homes:  lapped  in  a  characteristic  inertia, 
they  drop  into  the  decay  of  death  before  they  ever  behold 
the  country,  the  desert,  or  the  sea.  Or,  dreaming  in  idle, 
ignorant  content  outside  the  walls  of  the  sleepy  city, — on 
the  banks  of  the  lovely  Lake  Mareotis, — they  care  not 
even  to  penetrate  inside.  The  Delta  seems  a  far-off,  in- 
explorable  myth  to  them,  and  the  mighty  Nile,  with  its 
gorgeously-fringed  banks,  a  fairy-tale." 

"  What  infinite  good  would  accrue  to  a  nation  such  as 
you  describe,"  began  Ronald,  musingly,  "if  somebody 
could  be  found  philanthrojjic  enough  to  i)ull  Mohammed 
All's  nose  for  him  at  least  once  a  year,  and  ob  ige  him  to 
draw  his  scimitar  !" 


THE  MILLS    OF  THE    GODS.  135 

"Ah,  my  young  friend,  when  our  flag  is  planted  on  the 
shores  of  the  N  le,  nous  a  lions  changer  tout  cela.  It  is 
only  a  question  of  time  ;  we  must  have  a  clear  road  to 
India,  you  kninv.  Eut  it  is  indubitable  that  when  a  na- 
tion keeps  not  its  hand  near  the  hilt  of  its  sword,  it  ceases 
to  respect  itself,  and  becomes  servile,  cringing,  supersti- 
tious, and  degraded." 

"  It  then  appears  to  be  the  duty  of  a  stronger  people 
to  take  possession  of  it  and  reinvigorate  its  torpid 
energies,"  laughed  Ronald.  "I  wonder  if  Prussia  is 
being  actuated  by  this  conviction  in  regard  to  Alsace  and 
Lorraine?" 

He  rose  as  he  said  this,  and  bade  them  adieu  until  the 
evening, — departing  with  a  brighter  face  than  he  had 
worn  lately.  Mr.  Fairfax  accompanied  him,  with  little 
Marian,  as  far  as  the  street,  where  in  the  sunshine  they 
daily  took  a  stroll  together. 

"  Shall  I  read  to  you,  Dora?  or  would  you  like  to  sleep 
a  little  ?"  asked  Agnes  of  her  patient,  when  the  door  closed 
behind  the  others. 

"I  should  like  you  to  read,  Agnes.  No,  not  that;  I 
am  weary  of  German,"  as  Agnes  took  up  Goethe. 
"Don't  be  vexed,  only  I  feel  like  English  to-day." 

Her  friend  quietly  took  down  Byron  from  the  shelf, 
and  began  a  canto  of  "  Childe  Harold."  Dora  inter- 
rupted her:  "No,  that  won't  do,  Agnes.  I  hate  that 
arrogant,  domineering  egotist  to-day  ;  he  irritates  me, — 
and  I  want  to  be  comforted." 

"For  shame,  Dora;   you  do  not  deny  the  great  poet?" 

"Ah,  no;  but  you  see  I  am  weak  and  ill,  and  I  want  a 
wholesome  breath  of  air,  not  a  sigh  of  sentiment  from  a 
diseased,  morbid  nature  !  He  is  very  beautiful  as  a  poet 
to  be  read  in  health  and  happiness, — but — Agnes,  read 
Keats." 


136  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

''Is  Keats,  then,  so  wholesome  in  his  fanciful,  tender 
sensibility?"  asked  Agnes,  smiling. 

"I  don't  know;  perhaps  sensibility  without  sensuous- 
ness  is  less  Byronic; — and,  Agnes,  is  sensibility  a  curse 
or  a  blessing?"  She  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  but 
murmured  softly  to  herself, — 

"  Quanto  la  cosa  h  piu  perfetta, 
Piu  senta  '1  bene  e  cosi  la  doglieza." 

Her  friend  opened  the  book  at  the  "  Eve  of  St.  Agnes," 
and  began  to  read  in  a  sweet,  musical  voice  with  the 
prettiest  accent. 

She  had  not  completed  one  stanza  before  a  voice  from 
the  bed  broke  in  :  "  Agnes,  how  can  you  be  so  unobserv- 
ant ?  Did  you  not  see  how  thin  and  ill  the  doctor  looked  ? 
Oh,  what  can  be  the  matter?  You  say  he  has  been  here 
every  day  since  the  very  beginning  of  my  illness  ;  he  can- 
not, then,  be  suffering  himself."  She  raised  herself  on 
her  elbow  and  spoke  in  an  eager  whisper. 

Agnes  looked  at  her  surprised,  and  answered,  quietly, 
"  Oh,  no  ;  he  is  quite  well ;  but  of  course  anxious,  as  we 
all  are,  about — these  troubles  in  Paris,  and  the  uncer- 
tainty of  everything.  And,  Dora,"  she  continued,  noting 
the  crimson  spots  which  had  returned  momentarily  to 
Dora's  cheeks,  '*  you  must  lie  down  now,  and  be  quite 
quiet;  you  will  have  a  return  of  the  fever  else."  She 
shut  up  the  book  and  laid  it  aside,  darkened  the  windows, 
and  sat  down  close  to  the  bedside.  Dora  held  tight  in 
hers  the  kind  hand  which  was  so  full  of  sympathy  in  its 
pressure,  and  lay  quite  still  for  a  moment  or  two.  Then 
these  words  of  the  laureate's  fell  from  her  lips, — 

"  No  life  that  breathes  with  human  breath 
Has  ever  truly  longed  for  death  : 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  137 

'Tis  life  whereof  our  nerves  are  scant, — 
Oh,  hfe,  not  death,  for  which  we  pant : 
More  hfe,  and  fuller,  that  we  want." 

The  last  line  was  almost  inaudible,  and  her  regular 
breathing  told  Agnes  that  her  weakness  was  finding 
strength  in  sleep. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

With  the  exception  of  three  or  four  unavoidable  ab- 
sences, Ronald  Buchanan  and  Dick  Ogilvie  met  daily  at 
the  Cafe  Henri  Quatre,  and  generally  dined  together. 

It  was  approaching  seven  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the 
last  day  of  October,  1870. 

Ronald  had  waited  much  later  than  this,  and  been 
waited  for,  on  various  occasions  during  the  past  month, 
but  to-day  he  had  worked  hard,  and  had  scarcely  tasted 
food  ;  he  was  much  exhausted,  and  determined  to  wait  no 
longer. 

He  had  just  given  the  order  for  dinner,  when  Ogilvie 
entered  hastily,  with  uniform  bespattered,  hands  black- 
ened, and  appearance  generally  disheveled. 

"Sorry  to  detain  you,  dear  boy,"  he  cried,  after  call- 
ing for  a  bowl  of  water  and  a  towel,  and  when  in  a  corner 
apart  he  made  a  rapid  toilet,  while  Ronald  supple- 
mented the  dinner  by  an  additional  horse-steak  and  pota- 
toes. "  You  see,"  he  continued,  drawing  his  chair  up  to 
the  table,  and  speaking  excitedly,  "  this  morning  after 
the  news  came  of  Bazaine's  treachery  in  giving  up  Metz, 
and  allowing  hinxself  to  be  taken  prisoner,  we,  that  is,  a 
party  of  our  officers,  went  to  the  H6;cl  dc  Ville  to  find 


138  THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

out  what  the  government  meant  to  do,  as  things  were 
looking  very  serious.  Well,  we  were  received  by  M. 
Arago — (I  say,  gar^on,  tell  them  to  put  plenty  of  truffles 
about  that  horse-steak,  and  bring  a  pint  of  Rcederer.  Mark 
my  words,  Ronald,  if  we  are  shut  up  here  until  we  have 
to  fall  upon  and  devour  each  other  for  lack  of  meat,  we 
X\'ill  always  find  truffles,  cliampignons,  and  champagne  to 
flavor  the  meal  in  Paris).  Well,  M.  lago  (or  whatever 
the  fellow's  name  was)  bowed  and  temporized  and  ex- 
postulated, and  finally  promised  to  give  us  an  answer 
at  two  o'clock.  Of  course  we  were  on  time ;  were  you 
there?"  Ronald  shook  his  head.  "The  Place  was  one 
dense  mass  of  human  beings:  National  Guards,  strong  in 
numbers,  men,  women,  and  children,  shouting,  yelling, 
struggling ;  Ronald,  it  was  Pandemonium  incarnate  !  Our 
men  were  exasperated  by  the  bad  news  of  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  fall  of  Le  Bourget  yesterday ;  the  rumor  that 
the  government  would  proclaim  an  armistice  maddened 
them.  Our  banners  bore  the  inscriptions,  'Vive  la  Com- 
mune!' 'No  armistice!'  and  'Vive  la  Republique!' 
Well,  old  boy,  we  waited  some  time,  not  patiently,  al- 
most deafened  by  the  cries,  '  Down  with  Trochu  !'  'Vive 
Trochu  !'  and  the  rest.  At  last  Trochu  appeared  in  plain 
clothes,  with  Rochefort  and  other  members  of  the  govern- 
ment behind  him,  at  the  principal  gate,  which  was  guarded 
by  a  company  of  Mobiles.  Trochu  looked  depressed,  and 
was  greeted  by  yells  of '  No  armistice  !  Down  with  traitors ! 
a  la  lanterne!'  I  never  witnessed  such  mad  frenzy;  his 
voice  was  drowned,  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  how  I  cannot 
tell,  we  were  all  bursting  into  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  Then 
there  was  confusion  worse  confounded  j  everybody  speak- 
ing at  once, — some  threatening  to  arrest  the  members  of 
the  government  should  they  refuse  to  resign.  One  man 
in    my  regiment,  a   fiery  Hercules,  actually  sprang  for- 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  139 

ward,  and  laid  bis  hand  upon  one  of  the  members  as 
they  sat  in  council, — his  name  is  Jacques  Toquelet, — 
'red'  to  the  backbone.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the 
io6th  Battalion  there  would  have  been  blood  shed  ;  tlicy 
behaved  well.  I  left  them,  Ronald,  striving  to  eject  my 
confreres  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet,  and  came  here  to 
relieve  your  anxious  heart,  and  my  hunger  at  the  same 
time.  En  route,  I  had  a  little  skirmish  with  three  gens- 
d'armes,  who  sought  to  detain  me  to  hear  the  news.  Fancy 
the  rashness  of  men  putting  a  spoke  in  the  wheel  of  a 
hungry  Briton !  I  soon  sent  them  to  the  right-about. 
Gargon,  depechez-voiis  done.  Gad,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  !" 
apostrophizing  the  steak  which,  smothered  in  truffles, 
now  made  its  appearance.  The  garcjon  flew  about  the 
table  :   he  was  serving  a  national  guard  ! 

"The  capitulation  of  Metz  seems  to  have  been  the  spark 
which  has  ignited  all  this  gunpowder,"  said  Ronald,  who 
had  listened,  much  interested,  to  the  account  of  a  scene 
he  had  been  debarred  from  witnessing  through  an  accumu- 
lation of  hospital  work;  "and  yet,  why  should  it?  It  is 
not  the  first  reverse ;  luck  has  been  against  them  all 
along." 

"Yes,"  replied  Dick,  with  his  fork  poised  half-way  to 
his  mouth,  "as  Frederick  the  Great  said,  'Providence 
always  takes  the  side  of  the  strongest;'  and  that  old  duffer 
knew  something  about  this  sort  of  things.  No,  no,  it  was 
the  taking  of  Le  Bourget  yesterday  that  riled  them,"  con- 
tinued Dick  ;  "  they  don't  want  much  to  set  them  off  when 
the  steam  is  up,  you  kno\A4;  great  oaks  often  grow  from 
their  tiniest  acorns." 

"Yes,"  replied  Ronald,  "Pliny  tells  us  that  the  sight 
of  a  fig  caused  the  destruction  of  Carthage  ;  why  should 
not  the  loss  of  a  village  destroy  Paris  ?  That  Pliny  also 
vouches  for  the  fact  that  a  woman  became  mother  to  an 


I40  THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 

elephant,  does  not  incline  us  to  doubt  the  truth  of  the 
other  incident." 

Dick  laughed,  and  filled  Ronald's  glass.  "  Here's  a 
health  to  anybody  or  anything  that  will  open  the  gates  of 
Paris  before  these  madmen  butcher  each  other  for  lack  of 
somebody  or  something  else  to  butcher.  I  hear  meat  is 
getting  scarce  already;  how  long  do  you  think  one  could 
live  on  champagne  and  olives,  Ronald?" 

"  Cela  depend,'"  answered  Ronald.  "I  have  heard  of 
cases  where  a  man  subsisted  for  a  long  time  on  shoe-leather ; 
and  there  are  plenty  of  rats  in  the  sewers  of  Paris  !" 

"  Pah  !  don't,  Ronald,  there's  a  good  fellow, — I  haven't 
dined  for  two  days,  you  see." 

He  was  indeed  making  up  for  lost  time,  and  Ronald 
was  obliged  to  leave  him,  to  make  a  visit  to  a  poor  woman 
who  had  been  frightfully  injured  in  a  riot,  a  night  or  two 
before.     Agreeing  to  meet  the  next  day,  they  separated. 

Alas,  many  days  passed  before  Ronald  again  looked 
upon  the  kindly  face  of  his  friend.  He  saw  it  then  by 
the  light  of  a  horn-lantern,  blackened  and  distorted  in 
agony. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


Before  midnight,  the  io6th  Battalion  had  restored 
quiet  in  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  the  National  Guards  had 
dispersed  by  command  of  Flourens  and  Megy,  les  oreilles 
iant  soit  peu  baissees. 

The  next  day  the  people  of  Paris  were  called  upon  to 
decide  whether  they  would  recognize  the  authority  of  the 
government  for  the  National  Defense. 

The  majority  of  the  votes  were  for  the  government,  and 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  141 

for  once  the  populace  of  Belleville  and  Montmartre  con- 
trolled themselves.  Later,  they  made  up  for  this  suppression 
of  their  natural  instincts,  when  hundreds  of  them  were 
killed  at  Montretout,  at  Garches,  and  at  Buzenval. 

The  sufferings  of  the  besieged  were  increasing  daily ; 
mid-winter  with  its  cold  rains  and  frost  was  upon  them ; 
black  bread  was  being  rationed  out  to  them  in  insufficient 
portions ;  the  famine  that  they  had  denied  the  possibility 
of,  was  fast  approaching. 

General  Vinoy  had  been  named  commander-in-chief 
of  the  army  of  Paris.  Trochu  still  continued  President 
of  the  government.  Flourens  had  been  imprisoned  for 
inciting  rebellion,  and  released  by  a  mob  of  his  own  men. 
Riots  were  of  daily  occurrence. 

Clement  Thomas  in  vain  issued  his  pacific  proclama- 
tions ;  the  people  were  desperate,  the  people  were  defi- 
ant, the  people  were  hungry. 

The  Place  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  was  often  the  scene  of 
idle  discussion,  fruitless  argument,  noisy  demonstration. 
In  the  afternoon  of  the  22d  of  January,  a  detachment  of  a 
hundred  or  two  National  Guards  drew  up  before  the  Ho- 
tel de  Ville,  crying,  "  Down  with  Trochu  !  Vive  la  Com- 
mune !"  After  a  few  moments,  an  officer  of  the  Gardes 
Mobiles  approached  and  tried  to  say  a  few  words;  in 
vain.  Suddenly  a  shot  was  fired,  and  through  the  great 
door  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  poured  forth,  as  if  waiting  for 
that  signal,  a  volley  of  fire  upon  the  Place,  whence  the 
National  Guard  and  idle  by-standers  fled,  shrieking  with 
fury  and  fear. 

Ronald  Buchanan  happened  to  be  one  of  the  spectators 
of  this  coup  de  theatre,  and,  as  the  smoke  cleared  away,  he 
advanced  to  investigate  the  condition  of  the  wounded 
who  lay  upon  the  Place.     He  first  attended  to  two  women 


142 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


who  were  injured,  not  mortally,  and  placed  them  on  two 
of  the  litters  which  were  arriving  from  the  Rue  du  Tem- 
ple, and  then  turned  his  attention  to  the  men.  What  was 
his  horror,  in  raising  the  head  of  a  white-haired  old  man 
who  had  flillen  on  his  face,  to  recognize  the  features  of 
Mr.  Fairfax,  fixed,  apparently,  in  the  rigidity  of  death. 
He  raised  him,  with  the  assistance  of  a  soldier  who  car- 
ried one  end  of  a  litter,  and  strove  to  restore  him,  but 
the  heart  had  ceased  to  beat ;  he  had  been  shot  through 
the  brain,  and  must  have  died  instantly.  Ronald  gave 
some  directions  to  the  soldiers  who  were  to  bear  him 
away,  and  turned,  with  an  aching  heart,  to  minister  to 
the  relief  of  the  other  victims.  About  a  dozen  men  still 
lay  groaning  around  him  ;  this  man  was  dead,  and  could 
feel  no  more ;  he  remained,  and,  with  steady  hand  and 
unclouded  eyes,  dressed  their  wounds,  and  then  went 
straiglit  to  the  Rue  de  Vaugirard,  to  break  the  sad  news 
to  Dora. 

What  desolating  change  has  passed  over  Dora's  pretty 
chamber  since  we  last  glanced  into  it?  Where  are  the 
roses,  the  books,  the  filigree  clock  ?  Where  the  pictures 
which  adorned  the  blank  whiteness  of  the  walls?  and 
where  the  laughing,  golden-haired  child,  who  danced  so 
gleefully  in  the  sunsliine  of  three  short  months  ago? 

Who  are  these  pale  phantoms,  robed  in  close-clinging 
serge,  with  the  red  cross  of  Geneva  on  their  sleeves  ? 
The  one  stooping  over  a  handful  of  fire  stirring  some 
miserable  broth  with  an  iron  spoon,  the  other  bending 
over  the  little  cot,  whose  curtains  have  gone  long  since  to 
supply  some  housekeeping  deficiency,  where  the  tangled 
curls,  white  face,  and  hollow  eyes  of  a  child  tossed 
wearily  upon  its  pillow. 

"  Make  haste,  Agnes ;  she  is  awake  now.     Perhaps  I  can 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  143 

induce  her  to  take  a  spoonful.     Is  it  done  ?"    Dora's  voice 
was  harsh  and  strained. 

Agnes  replied,  in  her  own  sweet  tones,  "  Yes,  it  is  done, 
and  I  think  will  be  nourishing;  that  last  piece  of  meat 
good  mother  Benoit  brought  us  has  made  it  quite  good." 

She  cooled  a  little  in  a  saucer,  while  Dora  took  up  the 
fragile  form  of  little  Marian,  and  implored  her  with  kisses 
and  caresses,  the  cooing  tenderness  a  mother  always 
uses  to  hush  a  wailing  infant,  to  take  some  of  the  broth 
which  had  been  so  difficult  to  prepare.  But  no:  Marian 
turned  her  head  away  and  closed  the  pretty  little  teeth 
resolutely  ;  slie  would  not  taste  one  drop.  In  vain  Agnes 
plead  ;  and  Dora  urged  that  Marian  would  surely  die  if 
she  did  not  eat  something.  The  child  only  fretted  and 
wept.  "  Marian  don't  care;  Marian  wants  to  die,"  she 
sobbed. 

In  despair  the  mother,  motioned  away  the  saucer  with 
the  untasted  broth  thereon,  and  rocked  her  baby  in  her 
arms,  while  great  tears  coursed  each  other  down  the  thin 
cheeks.  Agnes  carefully  covered  the  little  saucepan  and 
set  it  aside  for  after  while ;  she  hoped  still. 

Marian  had  been  very  ill :  a  severe  cold  taken  one  even- 
ing, when  she  had  been  obliged  to  wait  with  iK'r  mother  at 
the  corner  of  a  street,  in  a  pouring  rain,  until  a  mob  which 
had  collected  around  Felix  Pyat,  and  had  changed  into  a 
riot,  had  dispersed,  settled  on  her  lungs,  and  for  two 
weeks  she  had  hovered  on  the  confines  of  the  angel-world. 
After  the  fever  left  her,  she  seemed  to  sink  ;  insufficient 
nourishing  food,  a  cold  room,  and  a  delicate  organiza- 
tion all  were  against  her;  she  could  not  rally,  and  for 
nearly  thirty-six  hours  had  absolutely  refused  to  taste 
anything.  The  ornaments  of  the  room,  a  few  trinkets 
of  Dora's,  and  a  little  money  she  had  saved  of  her  father's 
sufficed    to   provide    them  with  the  bare  necessaries  of 


144 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


life  until  now.  To-night  they  shared  their  last  meal, 
Agnes  and  Dora  alone,  for  the  father,  who  had  gone 
out  in  the  afternoon  to  apply  for  aid  at  the  English 
Ambulance  Office,  had  not  yet  returned.  They  knew  not, 
these  two  forlorn  women,  where  another  meal  would  come 
from  ;  even  Agnes's  bright  spirit  was  dimmed  :  she  sat 
with  drooping  head,  quite  silent.  How  joyful  was  the 
sound  of  Ronald's  step  upon  the  stairs !  Even  Dora 
stopped  crooning,  and  raised  her  head  to  listen ;  Agnes 
rose  and  lit  the  lamp. 

But  his  step  surely  sounded  differently  this  evening ;  it 
was  slower,  heavier,  and  destitute  of  that  buoyancy  so 
characteristic  of  his  temperament. 

He  came  in  quietly,  sadly,  and  sank  as  if  weary  into  a 
chair  near  Dora  and  the  child.  "  Did  she  seem  to  enjoy 
the  broth?"  he  asked,  placing  his  fingers  on  the  tiny 
wrist, — "  did  she  take  any  of  it?"  There  was  something 
of  alarm  in  his  voice  now,  for  the  pulse  indicated  that  the 
flame  of  life  was  just  flickering,  no  more. 

"No,  she  has  taken  nothing, — nothing,"  sighed  the 
mother;  "but  I  think  she  is  better,  decidedly  better. 
You  see  she  does  not  moan  at  all  now,  or  roll  her  head 
about  in  that  distressing  way;  and  she  has  not  a  par- 
ticle of  fever,  has  she?" 

"No,  she  has  no  fever,"  answered  Ronald,  "and  I 
think  might  sleep  a  little,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  lay  her 
in  her  cot ;  sleep  will  strengthen  her,  you  know." 

Instantly  Dora  rose,  and  with  her  own  hands  laid 
her  gently  on  the  pillow.  When  she  returned  to  her 
seat  she  could  not  iielp  noticing  the  attitude  of  deep 
dejection  into  which  Ronald  had  sunk.  "You  are  ill," 
she  said,  softly,  "  or  something  new  has  happened  in 
this  fated  city.  What  have  they  done  now  ?  We  know 
nothing." 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  145 

He  leaned  towards  her  and  took  her  hand  in  his. 
"Dora,"  he  began, — she  shuddered  slightly  at  this  un- 
wonted style  of  address,  it  made  her  fear  she  knew  not 
what, — "Dora,  you  must  be  strong  and  calm;  in  these 
troublous  days  men  and  women  are  called  upon  to  bear 
terrible  trials.     For  the  sake  of  your  child,  who  needs  all 

your  care  and  strength" His  voice  broke  down,  and, 

drawing  her  hand  from  his,  she  wailed  forth, — ■ 

"Ah  !  why  do  you  not  strike  the  blow  at  once?  INIy 
father  !  he  is  hurt,  wounded,  killed,  perhaps  !"  Her  voice 
rose  at  each  word,  and  at  the  last  it  had  grown  into  a 
stifled  shriek. 

Ronald  knelt  on  one  knee  before  her,  and  said,  striving 
to  speak  calmly  and  firmly,  "  Your  father  did  not  suffer 
one  instant ;  he  has  been  saved  all  the  tortures  of  a  i)ro- 
tracted  siege ;  in  his  old  age  he  might  have  starved  slowly 
before  your  eyes ;  he  is  now  at  rest,  happy,  perhaps,  with 
the  wife  that  he  has  never  ceased  to  mourn.  Dora,  it  is 
for  the  best.  Oh,  my  friend,  look  up  and  tell  me  that 
you  feel  it  is  best  so."  She  answered  nothing.  Convul- 
sive sobs  shook  her  frail  form  from  head  to  foot.  Agnes 
was  wiping  her  own  quiet  tears  away,  in  an  obscure  cor- 
ner of  the  room.  Ronald  began  again  :  "  You  will  be  ill ; 
you  are  wringing  my  heart,  Dora;  have  you  no  pity  for 
me?" 

"  Hush  !  hush  !"  she  cried,  in  anguish,  "  you  must  not 
speak  like  this  to  me  !  Oh,  my  God,  is  not  my  burden 
heavier  than  I  can  bear?"  She  started  to  her  feet  with 
streaming  eyes,  and  paced  up  and  down  the  narrow  room, 
moaning  at  intervals.  Ronald  sat  with  bowed  head, 
wrestling  in  his  heart  with  the  fiercest  temptation  he  had 
ever  known.  To  go  and  take  the  desolate  creature  in  his 
strong  arms,  to  be  to  her  father,  luisband,  friend,  all  in 
one,  to  hold  her  close  to  the  heart  which  was  bursting  with 
G  13 


146  THE   MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 

pity  and  with  love  for  her  in  her  helpless  sorrow,  the 
heart  which  had  never  held  another  image  than  hers,  that 
was  true  and  strong  and  noble  to  the  core. 

But  this  was  not  the  time  ;  to  take  advantage  of  her 
crushed  heart  in  this  hour  of  grief,  when  she  might  turn 
to  him  through  gratitude  or  loneliness,  or  for  protection, 
was  foreign  to  his  nature,  and  his  voice  was  quite  steady- 
as  he  went  towards  her,  saying,  ''Should  you  like  to  see 
him  once  more,  dear?  There  is  no  wound  that  you  can 
see]  he  is  quite  near.  Shall  I  come  for  you  and  Agnes  in 
half  an  hour  and  take  you  to  him?"  Dora  bowed  her 
head  in  acquiescence,  and  Ronald  went  away. 

He  had  ordered  the  litter-bearers  to  take  the  body  to 
his  own  number  in  the  Rue  de  Vaugirard,  and  to  request 
the  concierge  to  allow  them  to  place  it  in  the  little  salle 
d^ aticnte  on  the  rez  de  chaussee.  There  it  lay,  covered 
with  a  snow-white  pall  which  the  good  porteress  had 
thrown  over  it,  after  recognizing  the  features  of  the  old 
English  gentleman  who  lived  opposite.  Ronald  examined 
the  body  attentively ;  there  was  no  drop  of  blood  about  it; 
they  had  done  their  work  neatly,  those  carbines  of  the 
Gardes  Mobiles.  On  the  left  side  of  the  head  the  bullet 
had  entered,  and  gone  out  through  the  right,  carrying  life 
with  it.  A  few  drops  of  blood  had  clotted  the  silver 
hair  ;  the  good  woman  liad  washed  these  away  and  brushed 
the  soft  locks  over  the  wounds,  completely  hiding  them. 
The  expression  of  the  face  was  untroubled,  almost  a  smile 
lingered  on  the  lips,  and  the  eyes  were  closed  naturally. 
The  white,  slender,  aristocratic-looking  hands  were  folded 
on  his  breast ;  it  was  an  image  of  rest  and  peace. 

Ronald  lingered  awhile,  giving  orders  for  the  burial  on 
the  morrow, — explicit  orders,  paid  for  out  of  liis  own 
scant  purse, — and  then  went  to  bring  Dora  to  bid  a  last 
farewell  to  her  idolized  father. 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  j^-j 

To  his  surprise  he  found  her  quite  cahn, — very  pale,  and 
with  violet  shadows  under  the  heavy  eyes, — but  composed 
and  with  an  angelic  softness  about  her  manner.  She 
wished  to  go  with  him  alone,  she  said  ;  "  Marian  cannot 
be  left  without  one  of  us,  and  Agnes  shall  go  afterwards, 
if  she  will." 

With  the  same  quiet  calm,  she  entered  the  little  room 
where  all  that  the  world  held  for  her  of  protection,  love, 
tenderness,  lay  cold  and  still  in  death ;  then  turned  and 
said,  almost  in  a  whisper,  *'  Will  you  leave  me  here  a 
little  while  alone,  please?" 

He  went  out  silently  and  closed  the  door.  After  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  during  which  he  had  heard  no  sob  or 
moan,  his  anxiety  conquered  his  will,  and  he  opened  the 
door  and  entered.  She  was  kneeling  beside  the  litter, 
with  her  face  buried  on  the  bosom  of  her  father,  one 
of  whose  arms  she  had  raised  and  placed  around  her 
shoulders,  holding  it  there  firmly  with  one  hand  ;  her 
other  arm  she  had  slipped  under  the  head,  now,  alas!  so 
heavy  and  unyielding  to  the  tenderness  of  her  caress. 

As  Ronald  came  near,  she  gently  drew  her  arm  away 
and  laid  the  dead  hands  together  on  the  breast,  and  rising 
slowly  and  painfully  from  her  cramped  position,  said, 
quietly,  "  Thank  you  very  much.  I  will  go,  now ;  and," 
stooping  over  the  pale  face  once  more  and  pressing  a 
kiss  on  the  closed  eyes,  "  it  has  been  such  a  comfort  to 
me  to  I'/iow  that  he  is  so  happy."  He  took  her  hand  and 
led  her  away,  his  heart  too  full  for  speech. 

As  they  entered  the  little  room  where  the  sick  child  lay, 
they  trembled  with  apprehension  ;  perhaps  the  little  one 
had  passed,  in  sleep,  away.  Agnes's  voice,  with  a  sub- 
dued but  cheerful  ring  in  it,  greeted  them:  "Oh,  Dora, 
I  have  had  Marian  up  and  fed  her;  and  look."  She  drew 
her  to  the  table  where  the  saucepan  stood,  half  cinplicd 


148  THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

of  its  contents.  "She  seemed  actually  hungry  and  en- 
joyed it,  and  went  off  to  sleep  immediately." 

Dora  listened  eagerly,  and  then  stepped  to  the  side  of 
the  cot  where  her  darling  seemed  to  be  sleeping  naturally. 
In  a  moment  she  turned  to  Ronald,  while  a  divine  smile 
broke  over  her  pale  features.  ' '  You  see, "  she  said,  ' '  God 
has  pity  upon  me,  after  all. ' ' 

That  night  Jacques  Toquelet,  who  had  been  one  of  the 
litter-bearers  of  her  poor  father,  brought  a  note  from 
Buchanan.     It  ran  thus  : 

"Your  father,  dear  friend,  will  be  buried  to-morrow 
morning.  Everything  has  been  attended  to  ;  should  you 
feel  strong  enough,  I  would  advise  your  going  with  us.  I 
shall  call  with  a  carriage  at  nine  o'clock  a.m.,  and  if 
Marian  continues  to  improve  it  will  do  her  no  harm,  well 
wrapped  up,  to  go  with  you,  if  the  weather  should  be 
fine. 

"Be  brave,  dear  friend,  and  let  the  smile  of  hope  and 
faith  I  saw  last  in  your  face,  rest  in  your  heart  forever. 

"Ronald." 

Jacques  Toquelet  also  deposited  with  M6re  Benoit,  the 
concierge,  a  basket  containing  a  fowl,  some  potatoes, 
white  bread,  and  a  couple  of  pots  of  prepared  beef  for 
broth  for  Marian. 

Dora,  Agnes,  and  Marian  breakfasted  in  the  sunshine 
which  gilded  the  poverty  of  their  denuded  chamber  the 
next  morning.  At  nine  o'clock,  a  dingy  fiacre,  followed 
by  a  hearse  bearing  a  plain  coffin,  drew  up  to  the  door. 
They  were  soon  all  on  their  way  out  to  Fere  la  Chaise, 
thankful  for  the  inestimable  privilege,  denied  so  many 
poor  hearts  in  those  days,  of  seeing  their  beloved  dead 
buried  with  the  sacred  rites  of  the  Church. 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  149 

A  simple  wooden  cross  marked  the  last  resting-place  of 
Dora's  beloved  father,  bearing  the  following  inscription: 

To  THE  Memory  of  Vincent  Fairfax. 

Died  January  22D,  1S71. 


CHAPTER    X. 

A  clear,  crisp  winter  morning,  without  frost. 

In  front  of  the  noble-pillared  portico  of  one  of  the 
"Stately  Homes  of  England"  which  Mrs.  Hemans  sang 
about,  was  drawn  up  a  gay  cavalcade  of  fair  women  and 
brave  men,  mounted  on  fine  horses,  and  moving  about  in 
that  state  of  suppressed  excitement  preliminary  to  a  stun- 
ning run  and  a  sure  find,  on  a  hunting-day,  when  the 
weather  is  not  too  gay  for  the  scent,  and  the  pack  all  that 
could  be  desired. 

There  were  half  a  dozen  or  more  bright-faced  girls  and 
young  matrons,  with  sparkling  eyes  and  peachy  cheeks, 
looking  their  very  best  in  their  perfectly-fitting  habits 
and  neat  hats,  with  tightly-braided  blonde  and  chestnut 
hair  stowed  away  somewhere  in  the  crown,  and  only  just 
appearing  beneath  the  brim. 

About  twice  as  many  gentlemen, — old,  young,  and 
middle-aged,  sitting  square  and  firm  in  their  saddles, — to 
the  manner  born  (if  I  may  misquote),  and  looking  a  trifle 
impatient  at  the  slight  delay  before  the  hounds  "throw 
off." 

The  master  of  these  canine  beauties,  with  the  keen  eye 
of  a  hunter  from  boyhood,  stood  a  little  apart,  with  one 


l^o  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

or  two  other  gentlemen,  inspecting  a  favorite  leash  of 
thorough-breds,  lately  added  to  the  pack. 

Reclining  in  an  exquisitely-appointed  pony-phaeton,  en- 
veloped in  a  rug  of  sable,  velvet-lined,  in  one  of  her  most 
seduisante  Parisian  toilettes,  lay  Pauline  de  Courboisie. 

She  was  unusually  brilliant  to-day,  in  exuberant  spirits, 
and  monopolized  the  tiny  carriage,  driving  herself  (the 
miniature  groom  was  as  ornamental  as  useless),  for  her 
hostess,  tlie  Countess  d'Hauteville,  never  missed  a  run 
with  the  hounds  on  any  occasion  whatever ;  and  the  man 
she  had  hoped  to  have  with  her  had  resolutely  refused  to 
double  up  his  long  limbs  in  her  honor,  and  had  ridden  to 
the  meet,  compromising  matters  by  keeping  steadily  at 
her  side  until  now. 

But  she  was  not  alone.  Around  her  were  gathered 
together,  on  horseback  and  on  foot,  red  coats,  in  all  and 
every  phase  of  imbecility  concerning  her;  and  with  them 
all,  in  sparkling  talk  and  brilliant  repartee,  she  held  her 
own  in  French  and  broken  English,  which  she  lisped 
with  such  beguiling  simplicity.  There  were  not  wanting 
women  who  asserted  that,  with  her  own  sex,  she  could 
speak  their  language  volubly  enough,  and  never  wore  that 
delightfully  na'ive  puzzled  expression,  which  arched  her 
brows  and  made  her  look  so  bewitching,  as  she  asked, 
"Can  you  not  tell  me  what  I  mean?"  with  an  appealing 
glance  at  the  best-looking  man  in  the  group.  But  then 
these  virgins  were  turned  thirty  who  defamed  her,  and  not 
handsome. 

A  close  observer  would  have  detected,  in  Pauline's 
brilliant  eyes  and  coquettish  manner,  something  a  trifle 
overstrained  this  morning;  and,  when  she  occasionally 
allowed  her  lace  parasol  to  droop  a  little  between  her 
face  and  those  of  her  adorers,  she  shot  forth  a  rapid  but 
keen  glance  at  the  cavalier  who  had  deserted  her  awhile 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


151 


ago,  and  who  was  now  absorbed  in  mounting,  and  ar- 
ranging with  much  deliberation  the  folds  of  the  habit 
belonging  to  a  foir,  stately-looking'blonde,  of  a  rare  and 
high-bred  type  of  beauty. 

As  Lady  Florence  EUesmere  gathered  up  her  reins,  and 
thanked  the  tall,  handsome  man  at  her  side,  with  a  bright 
smile  and  a  few  courteous  words,  granting  him  permission 
to  /eadher  in  the  coming  run,  there  flashed  out  from  the 
depths  of  Pauline  de  Courboisie's  eyes  a  gleam  as  deadly 
as  ever  brightened  steel. 

For  the  languid  Adonis,  who  now  vaulted  into  the  sad- 
dle of  a  superb  chestnut,  held  in  waiting  by  his  groom, 
was  no  other  than  Dyke  Faucett,  the  man  for  whose  sweet 
sake  she  had  come  to  wither  in  this  cold,  bleak,  dreary 
country. 

What  if  she  /lad  been  feted  and  courted,  and  passed 
from  one  country-house  to  another  as  its  choicest  guest, 
since  her  flight  from  Paris,  carrying  destruction  every- 
where, in  the  arch  coquetry  and  charming  viinaudcries 
innate  in  her,  and  fostered  by  the  exquisitely-polished 
genre  of  the  court  circles  of  the  Empire;  turning  men's 
heads  who  might  otherwise  have  gone  down  to  respectable 
graves  ignorant  of  the  song  of  the  sirens,  winning  from 
thwarted  mammas  and  mortified  daughters  unequivocal, 
and  not  unexpressed,  disapproval:  to  say  nothing  of  the 
maledictions  of  many  a  neglected  wife,  who  strove  in 
vain  to  attain  the  willowy  grace  of  attitude  and  move- 
ment, the  delicate  tapering  waist,  and  that  faint  rose- 
bloom  on  their  own  health-colored  cheeks,  which  just 
penetrated  the  ])olishcd  ivory  of  Pauline's  well-preserved 
complexion  ?  And  yet  they  could  not  see  what  the  men 
saw  in  that  over-dressed,  affected  French  doll;  she  was 
certainly  not  good  style, — and  her  husband  abroad,  too. 
Indeed,  they  could  not  understand  how  the  dear  duchess 


152 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


could  have  taken  lier  up  with  so  much  empresseinent, 
etc.  etc. 

And  she  had  forsaken  her  France,  and  all  the  delightful 
chateaux  which  solicited  her  presence  under  the  sunny 
skies  of  her  own  land,  for  this. 

True,  there  were  piquant  morsels  in  her  daily  fare, — 
but  would  they  not  have  been  equally  delicious  away  from 
the  fogs,  and  the  east  wind,  and  these  horrible  fox-hunts 
which  formed  the  staple  of  the  winter's  amusement,  which 
took  all  the  men  away  from  the  house  all  day,  and  sent 
them  home  tired  and  stupid,  and  red  in  the  face,  for  the 
eight  o'clock  dinner,  more  inclined  for  one  more  bottle 
afterwards,  than  anything  more  stimulating  and  less  sleep- 
engendering  in  the  drawing-room? 

Yes,  it  was  for  this, — to  sit  and  chafe  inwardly,  and 
suffer  in  impotent  anguish  the  pangs  she  had  so  ruthlessly 
inflicted  upon  others, — chatting  cheerily,  and  smiling 
gleefully,  while  her  heart  wept  sore  within  her,  as  she 
noted  the  boundless  devotion  in  every  look  and  move- 
ment of  the  man  she  loved  towards  a  younger,  fairer, 
freer  rival.  Yes,  retributive  justice  had  seen  fit  to  smite 
her  at  last ;  and  the  wily  coquette,  who  had  begun  the 
gz.vae  pour  s^ ami/ser,  went  down  prone,  in  the  abject  idol- 
atry of  a  woman  who  had  never  learned  the  lesson  of 
self-control.  After  she  had  given  up  speculating  upon  the 
possibility  of  such  a  denouement,  she  struggled  awhile 
madly  to  disentangle  herself  from  the  meshes  of  a  net 
which  restricted  in  a  great  degree  her  enjoyments,  and 
threatened  to  bind  her  down  to  the  inthrallment  of  a 
^i^rande passion ;  but  finding  it  hopeless,  she  resigned  her- 
self to  the  new  experience,  and  poured  into  it  all  the 
vehemence  of  her  undisciplined  nature. 

Alas!  not  only  was  she  willing  to  come  at  his  beck  to 
these  bleak  shores  of  England,  but  even  to  the  border- 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  153 

land  of  the  great  Unknown  would  she  unhesitatingly  have 
followed  his  lead. 

It  did  not  make  her  pain  less  keen  to  know  that  in  the 
beautiful  Florence  Ellesmere  she  saw  the  woman  chosen 
by  Sir  Philip  Standley  as  the  destined  bride  of  his  adopted 
son  ;  if  one  drop  could  be  bitterer  than  another  in  the 
cup  which  had  of  late  been  pressed  to  her  lips,  it  was  the 
galling  thought  that  one  was  free  and  the  other  bound, 
and  that  Dyke  loved  himself  better  than  either,  therefore 
he  would  be  lost  to  her. 

The  hunting-party  were  all  assembled  ;  many,  especially 
the  younger  members,  impatient  for  the  start,  when  Dyke 
Faucett  rode  up  to  the  side  of  the  pony-phaeton  to  say 
ail  revoir  to  its  fair  occupant.  She  finished  her  gay  speech 
to  an  infatuated  major  of  dragoons  (why  is  the  major  in 
a  play  or  a  novel  inevitably  a  fool  ?),  on  her  other  side, 
long  after  she  had  felt  Dyke's  approach;  and  then,  as  he 
addressed  her,  she  answered  in  rapid  French,  which  was 
the  signal  for  all  the  other  men  to  disperse,  who  still  hung 
about  her. 

"  I  need  not  ask  you  how  you  have  enjoyed  the  meet," 
he  began;  "only  to  look  at  you  sparkling  and  brimming 
over  with  witchery,  and  driving  these  poor  fellows  mad, 
is  indicative  enough  of  your  thoroughly  amusing  your- 
self." 

"  Yes,"  she  laughed,  "yV  ne  m' eiinuyais pas  irop  ;  I  con- 
trive to  exist  somehow ;  but,  oh,  I  do  wnsh  I  could  hunt  ! 
You  all  look  so  very  jolly,  and  it  will  be  so  insupi)ortably 
triste  a  la  maison,  unless  indeed  that  handsome  sabrcur 
has  returned  from  town  and  will  comfort  me!"  She 
sighed. 

"Pauline,"  Dyke  began,  impatiently,  "  you  are  making 
yourself  quite  ridiculous  with  that  American,  of  whom 
you   know  absolutely  nothing, — a  conceited    snob  he  is 


154 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


too.  Really,  how  you  can  spend  hours  in  his  society,  in 
a  house  so  full  of  dels  esprits  as  Grantly  Manor  is  at 
present,  I  cannot  imagine  !" 

She  waited  patiently  until  he  had  finished  speaking ; 
every  word  \vas  delightful  to  her  ears ;  he  was  really  jeal- 
ous enough  to  be  unjust,  and  a  trifle  energetic  ! 

"Pardon  me,  mon  chcr,^'  she  rejoined  in  the  sweetest 
accents.  "  You  are  quite  wrong;  /  do  know  absolutely 
very  much  about  this  good-looking  colonel.  A  gentle- 
man who  brings  letters  of  introduction  to  the  Duke  of 

L ,  and  who  is  received  at  your  best  houses  with  ejn- 

prcsscmeiit,  is  not  unknown — or  a  snob." 

"Perhaps,"  assented  Dyke,  ungraciously.  "Still,  that 
does  not  alter  my  opinion  of  his  priggish  impertinence 
and  stupid  assumption  of  superiority.  I  do  not  count 
many  Americans  among  my  acquaintance ;  but  I  cer- 
tainly know  no  other  of  his  stamp." 

"  Possibly,"  acquiesced  Pauline, — "  for  he  is  decidedly 
the  most  spirituel  as  well  as  the  most  fascinating  man  in 
the  house,  and,"  she  added,  maliciously,  "undeniably 
he  is  the  handsomest." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Dyke,  who  instantly  recovered  his  sang- 
froid;  "  he  has  a  handsome  face,  of  the  style  women 
affect,  I  believe  ;  but  the  man  is  simply  obnoxious  to  me, — 
voild  toutr^ 

"Strange!"  murmured  Pauline,  meditativelj%  "I 
should  have  imagined  you  would  have  been  great  friends. 
He  is  such  a  strong,  noble,  courageous  creature  ;  and  his 
manners  are  simply  charming.  And  oh,  Dyke,  what  a 
musical,  trainante  voice  he  has !  I  have  never  heard  one 
to  equal  it !" 

"And  I  am  detaining  you  when  you  might  be  listening 
to  its  dulcet  tones!"  cried  Dyke,  irritated  in  spite  of 
himself.      "  I  have  the  honor  to  bid  you  good-morning." 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  155 

As  he  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  galloped  after  the  party 
who  had  just  scattered,  as  the  hounds  threw  off,  and 
Pauline  saw  him  draw  rein  beside  the  Lady  Florence, 
she  bit  her  li]j  till  it  4)Ied,  while  she  smiled  in  her  soul, 
saying,  "Yes,  he  is  certainly  jealous  !"  and  drove  quickly 
home  to  transfix  with  a  surer  arrow  the  heart  of  that  brave 
gar(on,  Percival  Tyrrell. 

But  Madame  la  Marquise  had  met  her  match  ! 

Ah,  Pauline  de  Lenepvue,  when  you  took  to  your  arms 
the  decrepit  form  of  the  old  Marquis  de  Courboisie,  be- 
cause his  rent-roll  and  his  pedigree  were  equally  long, 
when  you  echoed  the  shameless  words  of  the  beautiful  and 
ambitious  de  Pompadour  when  she  married  Lenormand 
d'Etioles,  untouched  by  his  frantic  love  for  her, — "  I  ac- 
cept him  with  resignation  as  a  misfortune  which  cannot 
lasi  long"  (while  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  king), — and 
stifled  therein  your  last  spark  of  true  womanhood,  you 
lost  forever  the  power  to  touch  a  heart  like  Percival  Tyr- 
rell's ! 

Had  you  also,  like  Madame  d'Etioles,  sworn  eternal 
fidelity  to  your  husband  ("unless  his  majesty  should  fall 
in  love  with  her  !"),  I  doubt  even  then  your  being  able  to 
blind  a  man  of  his  quick  perceptions  to  the  rigid  narrow- 
ness of  your  soul ;  and,  as  it  was,  he  saw — and  admired, 
as  we  admire  a  conception  of  Rubens  embodied  in  his 
inimitable  flesh-tints, — feeling  through  them — the  clay  ! 

For,  although  he  was  not  that  most  intolerable  bore,  a 
pedant,  Percy  Tyrrell  was  a  deep  student,  and  not  only 
of  books  but  of  that  mysterious  paradox — human  nature. 
With  an  intellectual  capacity  of  a  high  order,  he  was 
ambitious  of  acquiring  knowledge,  both  for  its  own  sake 
and  because  of  the  legendary  tradition — in  which  his  be- 
lief was  firm — that  it  was  poioer. 

He  was  a  very  proud  man,  not  mcrel)-  in  outward  de- 


156  THE   MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 

velopment  of  character,  but  in  the  recesses  of  his  heart 
and  conscience ;  he  held  his  own  standard  of  right  and 
his  own  apex  of  honor, — and  to  both  he  was  willing  and 
believed  himself  strong  enough  to  sacrifice  all  that  warred 
against  either.  For  he  was  that  not  uncommon  antithesis, 
— a  Christian  in  form,  at  heart  almost  a  pagan  !  Rever- 
encing religious  faith  as  something  divinely  beautiful  and 
harmonious,  and  regarding  its  devout  followers  with  a  re- 
spect and  admiration  not  unmixed  with  envy,  he  had  not 
learned  to  regulate  his  own  tlioughts,  actions,  and  hopes 
by  the  counsels  drawn  from  divine  inspiration. 

In  manner  he  was  undemonstrative,  quiet,  and  rather 
cold  ;  one  could  rarely  detect  that  he  was  disappointed, 
annoyed,  or  grieved  J  beseemed  perfectly  self-reliant;  it 
appeared  almost  absurd  to  think  that  love's  fitful  fever 
could  ever  sway  the  pulsations  of  that  tranquil-seeming 
heart. 

And  yet,  had  he  once  been  able  to  trust  a  woman  im- 
plicitly,— to  feel  that  he  was  all  in  all  to  one  whom  he 
could  thoroughly  approve, — there  were  depths  of  tender- 
ness in  his  nature  which  would  make  the  "shallows" 
which  "murmur"  seem  but  dry,  barren  soil.  But  that 
woman  had  grown  a  shadowy,  mythical  creation  of  the 
brain  to  his  fastidious  requirements,  and  his  somewhat 
cynical  insight  into  human  nature  furnished  no  semblance 
of  the  ideal  he  sought ;  therefore,  calmly  and  a  little  bit- 
terly, he  decided  at  thirty-five  years  to  live  out  the  rest 
of  his  life,  as  fully  as  may  be,  alone. 

That  he  reckoned  without  the  consent  of  those  weird 
sisters  who  spend  the  strength  in  their  bony  fingers 
tangling  the  skeins  of  life  for  most  of  us,  he  acknowl- 
edged not — until  afterwards. 

And  this  was  the  man  whom  a  Pauline  de  Courboisie 
fancied  she  could  bring  into  subjection  by  a  few  glances 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


157 


of  her  brilliant  eyes,  a  few  murmured  reproaches  for  a 
coldness  which  repelled  while  it  attracted  her.  For 
Percy  Tyrrell  was  a  universal  favorite  with  women, — per- 
haps because  he  seemed  so  indifferent  to  their  attractions, 
— perhaps  because  all  women  worship  strength  and  gentle- 
ness combined;  and  these  were  his  chief  characteristics. 


CHAPTER     XI. 


As  the  fairy-like  carriage,  with  its  spirited  ponies,  swept 
swiftly  around  the  drive  shaded  by  grand  old  beeches, 
and  drew  up  before  the  entrance  of  an  ancient  pile,  cov- 
ered with  moss  and  lichens  and  bearing  on  its  noble  face 
the  weather-marks  of  centuries,  Pauline  gave  a  rapid 
glance  around  before  she  threw  the  reins  to  the  tiny 
groom  and  prepared  to  descend  without  the  assistance  she 
had  confidently  expected  would  await  her. 

I  fear  her  frame  of  mind  was  not  angelic  as  she  noted 
the  stillness  which  reigned  about  the  deserted  mansion, — 
no  sound  save  the  cawing  of  the  rooks  in  the  rookery  and 
the  plaintive  moaning  of  the  doves  in  the  dove-cote  to 
break  the  silence.  Not  even  a  servant  visible,  of  whom 
she  could  make  some  inquiries.  Ah,  this  was  too  much  ! 
and  poor  Carlo,  a  handsome  St.  Bernard,  who  -liad  cau- 
tiously approached,  received  a  vicious  little  kick  from  a 
delicate  satin  boot,  which  ruffled  his  sweet,  equable 
temper  only  for  a  moment,  and  he  walked  away  with 
an  eloquent  dignity  while  the  marquise  pulled  the  bell 
energetically. 

"  Colonel  Tyrrell, — has  he  returned?"  she  demanded, 
as  the  footman  threw  open  the  doors. 

14 


158  THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

"  Yes,  my  lady;  he  returned  an  hour  ago ;  he  is  in  the 
shrubbery  somewhere,  reading;  I  saw  him  a  few  moments 
ago." 

"Reading!  always  reading!"  she  muttered,  as  she 
crossed  the  superb  entrance-hall,  which,  by  its  vast  pro- 
portions, its  high,  carved  chimney-piece,  under  which  the 
massive  sideboard  still  stood,  with  its  sculptured  boars' 
heads  and  wide-spreading  antlers,  indicated  the  dining- 
hall  of  days  of  yore,  where  many  a  feast  had  been  merrily 
held,  with  wassail  deep. 

Through  a  second  hall  Pauline  now  sped,  whose  walls 
were  hung  with  favorite  Landseers  and  large  crayon  like- 
nesses of  certain  pets  in  the  earl's  stud  and  kennels,  and 
still  she  encountered  not  a  human  being.  "  It  is  like  an 
enchanted  palace,"  she  thought.  "  Where  is  Mignonne, 
I  wonder?"  And  she  went  on  through  the  empty  library 
and  into  a  small  circular  hall  which  separated  it  from  the 
billiard-room. 

There,  standing  in  the  dim  light,  filtered  into  rainbow 
hues  through  the  magnificent  stained-glass  windows, 
whence  they  fell  upon  the  marble  tessellated  floor,  she  had 
an  excellent  view  of  a  tableau-viva7it,  of  which  not  the 
smallest  detail  escaped  her. 

Three  windows  opening  to  the  ground  formed  the  south 
end  of  the  billiard-room,  and  in  one  of  these,  with  the 
sunshine  falling  here  and  there  upon  them  through  the 
flickering  leaves  of  the  ivy  which  hung  in  festoons  over 
their  heads,  stood  two  figures  who  were  worthy  of  an 
artist's  pencil. 

A  girl,  slightly  above  the  medium  height,  with  one  of 
those  lithe,  willowy  figures  which  it  is  a  pleasure  to  watch 
moving  about ;  with  a  small  head  bound  tightly  with  dark 
braids,  the  deep-blue  eyes,  black-lashed,  and  the  rich- 
colored  cheeks  and  lips  which  showed  her  Celtic  blood, 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  159 

watched  with   loving  glance  a  child  who  flew  here  and 
there  over  the  lawn,  chasing  a  butterfly  in. great  glee. 

Leaning  slightly  against  the  opposite  side  of  the  win- 
dow, with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  eloquent  face,  Percival 
Tyrrell  completed  the  picture. 

A  man,  tall,  slender,  wiry, — with  not  an  ounce  of  su- 
perfluous flesh  about  his  well-knit,  nervous  frame, — witli 
features  clear-cut  as  a  cameo,  the  lower  part  of  the 
face  delicate,  the  nostrils  arched  and  fine.  His  eyes,  of  a 
clear  blue-gray,  expressed  intelligence,  and  at  times  shone 
with  a  cold,  analytical  severity;  rarely  did  they  soften  as 
at  this  moment,  and  more  rarely  still  did  the  firm  lips 
curve  into  such  a  winning  smile  under  the  heavy  mous- 
tache that  screened  many  a  satirical  expression  which 
rested  there  too  often — for  his  own  happiness. 

And  yet  there  was  a  languid  grace  in  his  manner,  and 
a  tenderness  towards  all  women  and  children,  which  con- 
tradicted his  cynical  smile  and  proved  an  irresistible  fasci- 
nation. Few  among  the  boisterous,  muscular  Christians 
assembled  at  Grantly,  who  boasted  so  noisily  of  their 
prowess  on  water  and  in  the  hunting-field,  would  have 
guessed  that  this  quiet,  reserved,  gentle-voiced  and  gentle- 
mannered  American — who  gave  but  lame  and  impotent 
enthusiasm  to  their  dances,  and  smiled  at  their  excitement 
over  the  brush,  and  did  not  think  the  world  well  lost  for 
any  da7iscuse  that  ever  pirouetted — had  through  three  years 
of  hard  fighting,  during  the  late  civil  war  in  his  own 
country, — leading  into  action  sometimes  three  regiments 
of  almost  undiscijjlined  recruits, — spending  the  nights  of 
an  American  winter  on  the  frozen  ground,  and  sufi'ering 
bitter  privation  of  all  kinds  without  a  murmur, — shown 
nerve  and  pluck  which  exceeds  even  that  manifested  in 
the  taking  of  fences  in  the  fox-hunt  or  the  pulling  of  oars 
at  a  university  boat-race. 


l6o  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

That  he  had  had  seven  horses  killed  under  huii  in 
action,  and  that  each  hair  of  his  head  remained  unin- 
jured, was  duly  set  forth  only  in  the  servants'  hall  by  his 
faithful  mulatto  servant,  who  went  through  the  war  with 
him,  and  worshiped  him  accordingly,  with  the  steadfast 
devotion  which  is  met  with  in  his  race. 

For  Tyrrell  did  not  dilate  upon  his  experiences,  and 
not  even  his  hostess  herself  knew  that  she  counted  among 
her  guests  one  of  the  most  distinguished  officers  who 
figured  in  the  late  Rebellion,  in  the  cold,  quiet  man  in 
whom  she  saw  nothing  more  than  a  scholarly  lassitude, 
which,  by  contrast  with  the  rampant  spirits  and  exuber- 
ant health  of  the  other  men,  was  delightful  to  her  tired 
nerves. 

Tyrrell,  upon  his  return  from  town,  had  taken  a  book 
and  sauntered  out  under  the  shade  of  a  great  copper- 
beech,  and  tried  vainly  to  resist  the  temj^tation  to  join 
little  Valerie  and  her  governess,  of  whom  he  caught 
glimpses  through  the  billiard-room  windows.  He  was 
not  loth  to  continue  an  acquaintance  with  the  spirited- 
looking  girl,  who  had  none  of  the  depressed,  dog-eared 
look  about  her  that  he  was  accustomed  to  associate  with 
her  vocation  ;  for  when  she  accompanied  her  pupil  to  the 
drawing-room  after  dinner,  although  she  always  chose  the 
shadiest  corner  therein,  she  did  not  seem  to  droop  or  look 
bored.  And  if  any  one  approached  her, — which  was  rare 
indeed,  and  7iever  done  by  women, — she  showed  an  ease 
of  manner,  and  a  certain  stately  grace  in  holding  her  own 
in  conversation,  as  though  the  blood  of  kings  ran  in  her 
veins. 

And  she  was  only  the  daughter  of  an  Irish  naval  officer, 
who  died  poor,  and  left  her  at  eighteen,  with  her  luckless 
dower  of  beauty,  upon  the  mercy  of  the  world. 

She  had  one  brother,  whom  we  have  met  before.  Rich- 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  i6i 

ard  Ogilvie,  a  ne'er-do-weel,  who  could  just  take  care  of 
himself — no  more — in  those  early  days  of  his  career. 

Anne  Ogilvie  had  been  well  educated,  and  for  three 
years  remained  as  teacher  in  the  school  near  London, 
where  she  had  already  spent  eight,  of  joyless  life,  and  then 
she  accepted  the  position  offered  her  by  the  superintendent, 
of  governess  in  the  family  of  the  Earl  d'Hauteville.  For 
three  years  she  had  filled  this  somewhat  trying  position 
with  the  unequivocal  approbation  of  her  patrons. 

"  She  was  beautiful,  to  be  sure,  but  then  she  was  modest 
and  retiring,  and  she  was  a  lady,  and  that  is  so  desirable, 
you  know,  with  a  child  of  Valerie's  age.  Some  of  these 
walking  encyclopcedias  are  so  very  objectionable,  my  dear, 
have  such  hands  and  feet,  and  dress  quite  shockingly,  it 
always  makes  me  ill  to  see  them  about  the  grounds  of  the 
places  where  I  visit ;  and  as  to  having  them  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, I  should  think  that  were  quite  impossible. 
Now,  Miss  Ogilvie  dresses  like  a  lady;  always  quietly,  like 
a  lady  in  reduced  circumstances  to  be  sure,  but  still,  a 
lady ;  and  then,  her  voice  is  very  fine,  and  she  is  so 
obliging  about  singing  and  playing  accompaniments," 
etc.  etc.  So  buzzed  on  her  ladyship  on  those  occasions 
when  her  governess's  beauty  wagged  the  tongues  of  her 
acquaintance,  and  silenced  them. 

As  they  stood  together  in  the  full  glare  of  day  (for 
Anne's  fresh  bloom  dreaded  no  sunlight,  however  search- 
ing), Pauline  de  Courboisie  took  in  the  picture  from  the 
open  door ;  and,  setting  her  small  teeth  together  firmly, 
she  registered  a  vow,  in  what  she  was  pleased  to  call  her 
heart,  "That  girl  shall  leave  this  house.  Last  night  Dyke 
Faucett  took  her  into  the  conservatory  to  show  her  the 
new  orchids,  and — now — to-day "  She  turned  sud- 
denly, and  mounted  to  her  own  rooms,  where  she  spent 
the  remainder  of  the  shining  hours,  alternately  ill  treating 

14* 


1 62  THE  MILLS   OF   TILE    GODS. 

and  caressing  a  hideous  pug,  Bijou  by  name,  and  extract- 
ing from  Mignonne,  her  precocious  six-year-old  daughter, 
the  gossip  of  the  servants'  hall,  which  her  nurse  faithfully 
retailed  to  her. 

Celestine,  standing  patiently  behind  her  mistress,  bene- 
fited by  the  conversation,  whilst  she  invented  a  coiffure 
that  should  out-Venus  Venus  at  the  dinner-hour. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

They  were  speaking  of  the  book  Tyrrell  had  been 
reading,  and,  as  he  placed  it  in  her  hand,  he  said, — 

"  It  is  Lamartine's  '  Confidences.'  I  have  quite  finished 
it.  You  may  like  to  look  over  it ;  pray  keep  it.  You 
will  find  some  beautiful  thoughts  there,  and  I  think  you 
told  me  you  knew  French?" 

"Yes,"  Anne  replied;  "I  have  read  Graziella  and 
Raphael  in  the  original ;  they  were  very  poetical.  Is 
this  like  them?" 

"Yes;  all  his  works  are  somewhat  alike,  in  that  they 
are  each  but  a  beautiful  setting  for  the  gem, — Laviartine. 
Even  his  'Revolution  of  '48'  is  an  exquisite  bit  of 
egotism." 

"Ah,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  bright  look,  "then  you 
think  with  me  that,  however  graceful  his  images  or  perfect 
his  ideals,  Lamartine  never  loses  sight  of  Lamartine  !" 

"Alas,  yes,"  replied  Tyrrell;  "he  is  a  profound  self- 
worshi[jer;  a  man  who,  even  under  the  influence  of  the 
divine  afflatus,  looks  around  the  shoulders  of  the  muse  at 
a  reflection  of  his  adorable  self." 

Anne  laughed.     "It  is  quite  true,"  she  said.      "One 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  163 

forgets  to  admire  the  poetry  of  his  conceptions  in  wonder 
at  the  sublime  ingenuity  of  a  vanity  which  would  be 
amusing  were  it  not  so  pitiful." 

"Like  his  compatriot,  Montaigne,"  pursued  Tyrrell, 
"he  studies  himself  more  than  any  other  subject.  Do 
you  remember  where  he  says,  '/am  my  metaphysic,  my 
natural  philosophy,  my  virtue,  and  my  religion'  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember,  Montaigne  always  paraded  his 
faults,  and  he  seems  to  me  invariably  to  make  a  merit  of 
his  selfishness,  vanity,  and  skepticism.  What  a  pity  it 
was!"  she  continued,  musingly.  There  ensued  a  pause, 
during  which  the  little  girl  came  up,  and,  leaning  against 
her  governess,  twined  her  arms  about  her  waist.  Anne 
caressed  her  mechanically,  her  thoughts  far  off,  and  then 
asked,  "You  would  not  compare  Montaigne  with  Lamar- 
tine,  would  you?" 

"No,  they  are  unlike  in  all  things,"  replied  Tyrrell, 
"save  that  underlying  current  of  self-worship,  which  we 
find  in  German  Goethe,  in  English  Byron,  and  in  our 
great  American  giant,  Emerson,  who  is  indeed  the  Mon- 
taigne of  the  New  World." 

"But  without  his  coarseness,  surely,"  remonstrated 
Anne,  "  without  that  materialism  which  chains  the  French 
skeptic  to  the  earth,  even  in  his  most  powerful  efforts  to 
soar  into  a  purer  atmosphere?" 

"Ah,  yes,"  asserted  Tyrrell;  "Emerson  is  Montaigne 
refined  to  an  essence,  which,  while  it  contains  a  subtle 
strength,  is  etherealized  fragrance  embodied  in  exquisite 
language."  Anne  listened  silently.  "It  is  that,"  pur- 
sued Tyrrell,  presently,  "which  makes  Jiim  so  attractive 
and  so  dangerous,  to  women  especially;  who  would  turn 
away  uninjured  by  Montaigne,  but  who  yield  a  loving 
reverence  to  Emerson,  saying,  like  Frederika  Bremer,  'I 
know  he  is  not  faultless;  but  then, — he  is  so  lovely  r  " 


1 64         THE  MILLS  OF  THE   GODS. 

At  this  moment  Justine,  little  Valerie's  French  maid, 
appeared,  to  take  her  young  mistress  to  be  dressed  for  the 
early  dinner  which  she  took  with  Miss  Ogilvie  and  their 
young  guest. 

Anne  also  sped  away  to  her  pretty  suite  of  rooms,  carry- 
ing with  her  her  precious  book,  with  "Percy  Tyrrell" 
scrawled  on  the  fly-leaf. 

That  little  book  became  a  devoted  friend  of  Anne's 
during  many  dreary  months  of  her  life,  and  for  many  weeks, 
when  the  burden  of  her  days  pressed  very  heavily  upon 
her,  and  when  she  felt  very  sad  and  lonely,  Lamartine's 
"Confidences"  were  stifled  between  her  cheek  and  the 
pillow,  and  sometimes  drowned  with  tears.  For  her 
lines  were  no  longer  cast  in  pleasant  places,  when  they 
crossed  the  path  of  Pauline,  Marquise  de  Courboisie. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

The  awful  pause  before  dinner!  When  the  guests  are 
all  assembled,  and  the  rustle  of  the  ladies'  dresses  and 
the  stifled  yawns  of  the  men  (who  glance  surreptitiously  at 
their  watches  every  moment)  are  the  only  sounds  that 
break  the  stillness  of  expectancy.  It  is  not  worth  while 
to  commence  a  conversation  which  may  be  interrupted 
immediately  by  the  appearance  of  the  portly  butler,  and, 
du  reste,  nobody  has  spirit  enough  to  set  the  example. 
A  few  tittered  nothings  from  the  mass  of  pink  antl  blue, 
surmounted  by  blonde,  crepe  chignons  in  the  corner,  and 
a  laudable  effort  on  the  part  of  the  hostess,  are  at  last 
checked  by  that  most  welcome  Dius  ex  inacliina, — "Your 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  id- 


0 


ladyship  is  served;"  and  they  file  out,  arm-in-arm,  in 
solemn  procession,  the  etiquette  of  precedence  being 
rigidly  observed,  towards  the  brilliantly-lighted,  warm, 
flower-scented  dining-room. 

As  they  took  their  places  at  the  sumptuous  board  glitter- 
ing with  gold  and  silver  epergnes  containing  choice  hot- 
house flowers  and  fruits  ;  where  the  heavy  plate  was  relieved 
by  painted  china,  equally  costly,  and  glass  whose  exqui- 
sitely-delicate form  and  tint  shed  faint  flower-like  hues  over 
the  snowy  damask  underneath  ;  while  the  noiseless,  liveried 
footmen  glided  about  observantly,  and  the  pompous 
butler  waved  his  magisterial  wand  occasionally,  animation 
seemed  to  return  magically  to  the  exhausted  energies  of 
the  guests  at  Grantly  Manor. 

At  either  hand  of  the  Countess   d'Hauteville  sat  the 

Duke  of  L and  the  Bishop  of  C ,  both  men  of 

culture  and  conversational  ability.  The  host  was  equally 
well  provided  for,  and  the  Ladies  Florence  Ellesmere, 
Maud  St.  Main-,  and  Jane  Evelyn,  were  supported  by 
Lord  St.  Maur,  the  Viscount  Aguylar,  and  Colonel  Stan- 
bury,  of  the  Rifles.  The  Marquise  de  Courboisie  recovered 
her  good  humor  between  Dyke  Faucett  and-  Percival 
Tyrrell,  who,  on  his  left,  had  the  sparkling  little  widow 
of  the  gallant  Colonel  Dundonald,  of  the  42d  High- 
landers. 

Before  the  clear  soup  had  disappeared  the  ball  of  con- 
versation was  rolling  smoothly,  and  the  hum  of  small-talk 
and  the  subdued  laughter  of  the  ladies  mingled  pleasantly 
with  the  popping  of  corks  and  the  delicate  aroma  of  the 
pines  and  sweet-scented  flowers, — not  too  powerful,  how- 
ever, to  annihilate  the  bouquet  of  the  priceless  wines  which 
supplemented  every  course. 

After  awhile  the  small-talk  grew  into  discussion,  and  in 
one  or  two  instances  into  argument,  among  the  graver 


1 66  THE  MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 

members  of  tlie  party.  The  duke  and  a  vis-d-vis  were 
discussing  the  admission  of  a  new  member  into  the  House 
of  Commons, — a  mutual  friend.  This  led  to  a  complaint 
on  the  duke's  part  of  tlie  engrossing  nature  of  the  duties 
in  both  Houses  to  a  conscientious  member,  drawing  forth 
the  expression  of  Macaulay  in  relation  to  Horace  Walpole, 
that,  "after  the  labors  of  the  print-shop  and  the  auction- 
room,  he  unbetit  his  mind  in  the  House  of  Commons," 
from  his  opponent,  in  a  laughing  contradiction  of  his 
assertion. 

"I  am  afraid,"  continued  Lord  St.  Maur,  who  had 
taken  his  seat  in  the  upper  House  at  an  unusually  early 
age,  and  promised  to  be  one  of  its  brightest  ornaments, 
"  that  the  pity  wasted  upon  our  arduous  exertions  is  some- 
thing akin  to  that  one  instinctively  feels  for  the  camel  on 
account  of  the  hump  on  its  back.  I  have  heard  that  the 
moment  the  smallest  load  is  put  upon  the  back  of  one  of 
these  animals,  he  closes  his  eyes  and  bellows  piteously, 
although  they  can  move  along  comfortably  under  a  well- 
packed  burden  of  seven  hundred-weight." 

The  duke  smiled.  "  You  speak  with  the  ardor  and 
contempt  of  youth  for  obstacles  of  all  kinds  which  beset 
the  earnest  worker.  To  be  anaccomplished  statesman, — 
to  learn  the  disposition  and  genius  of  a  people,  and  the 
inclinations  of  his  sovereign,  diplomatists,  and  leading 
minds  ;  to  study  the  meaning  of  great  treaties,  the  real 
value  and  strength  of  the  land  and  sea  forces  of  all  coun- 
tries,— is  not  enough  !  Principles,  opinions,  and  interests 
change,  and  one  must  be  ever  watchful,  patient,  and — un- 
impulsive.  To  such  young  blood  as  yours,  my  dear  Al- 
gernon, I  should  always  be  tempted  to  utter  Talleyrand's 
warning  to  his  impetuous  friend  who  was  just  entering 
upon  his  ministerial  duties, — 'et  'awxiowi— point  de  zelc, 
monsieur.^  " 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  iG-j 

"Ah,"  laughed  St.  Maur,  "if  I  were  not  by  birth  and 
training  as  conservative  as  your  Grace,  I  should  imagine 
you  were  pushing  me  for  some  daring  innovation,  you 
speak  so  seriously.  To  my  miml,"  he  added  in  a  lower 
tone  to  Percival  Tyrrell,  who  had  been  listening,  while  the 
duke  turned  to  answer  a  remark  of  his  hostess, — "to  my 
mind,  the  infusion  of  young  blood  into  both  Houses  is  of 
the  greatest  advantage — it  reinvigorates  them." 

"Take  care,"  answered  Percival,  smiling  under  his 
heavy  moustache;  "you  know  the  fate  of  the  old  bottles 
^7hen  new  wine  was  poured  into  them." 

"Combustion?  Yes;  but  our  bottles  are  iron-bound 
and  proof  against  accident  of  that  kind,"  replied  St. 
Maur.  "Why,  earthquakes  may  swallow  up  kings,  nations 
may  crumble  all  about  us,  the  Prince  Imperial  may  sit  on 
the  throne  of  France,  and  the  Czar  of  Russia  in  the  chair 
of  St.  Peter,  but  the  house*  of  Parliament — those  two 
monuments  to  our  wisdom — will  be  left  standing  in  their 
gloomy  grandeur,  breathing  defiantly  to  the  world, 
'  Aj>res  nous,  le  deluge. '  "  He  stopped,  out  of  breath,  laugh- 
ing with  the  rest,  and  turned  abruptly  to  his  neighbor, — 
"Enough  of  politics;  did  you  hunt  to-day?  I  could  not 
get  here  in  time." 

"Yes,"  answered  Lady  Florence  Ellesmere,  "I  did, 
and  enjoyed  it  amazingly.  And,"  she  added,  with 
sparkling  eyes,  "  I  have  the  brush  !  I  was  in  at  the  death, 
and  Mr.  Faucett  was  good  enough  to  secure  it  for 
me!" 

St.  Maur  suppressed  a  smile.  "  How  very  gratifying," 
he  said.  "I  am  sure  you  would  not  be  willing  to  ex- 
change it  for  the  bay  crown  of  Corinne  at  the  capitol,  or 
even  the  sonnets  of  Petrarch's  Laura?" 

"Most  certainly  not,"  answered  the  beauty,  disdain- 
fully.     "I  consider  a  good  run  with  the  hounds  superior 


1 68        THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 

to  either.  As  for  Corinne,  I  cannot  S3anpathize  with  her 
morbid  sentimentalism ;  and,  besides,  I  have  an  aversion 
to  her  because  she  was  an  habituee  of  the  school-room, 
and  is  always  associated  with  copy-books  and  the  *  use  of 
the  globes'  in  my  mind.  As  to  Laura,  who  knows  whether 
she  ever  existed  ?  She  was  only  a  peg  to  hang  Petrarch's 
fancies  on." 

"Yes,"  replied  St.  Maur,  "you  are  right.  Every- 
thing is  dubious,  and  everybody  mythical,  in  those  days 
before  the  institution  of  the  fox-hunt.  There  is  nothing 
certain,  any  more  than  new,  under  the  sun,  excepting  the 
additional  brilliancy  and  beauty  of  the  fair  Dianas  them- 
selves this  evening  ;"  this  to  her,  with  an  admiring  glance, 
and  inwardly,  "The  fable  of  Prometheus  is  no  myth,  but 
repeats  itself  eternally." 

Faucett  all  this  while  was  languidly  laying  himself 
metaphorically  at  the  feet  of  the  Marquise  de  Courboisie, 
and,  as  her  neighbor  on  the  other  hand  seemed  absorbed 
in  an  animated  conversation  with  the  pretty  widow,  she 
bent  herself  to  the  employment  of  every  art  of  witchery 
known  to  the  modern  Circe,  and  had  almost  succeeded  in 
awakening  him  to  a  perilous  animation,  when  the  signal 
was  given,  and  tlie  ladies  were  obliged  to  adjourn  to  the 
drawing-room. 

As  she  passed  through  the  door  held  open  by  Faucett, 
she  murmured  one  word  in  his  ear,  which  sent  him  back 
to  the  table  with  a  f^iint  blush  on  his  cheek  and  a  danger- 
ous glitter  in  his  cold,  blue  eyes. 

Pauline  was  not  ignorant  of  the  diabolical  poison  in  the 
Parthian  shaft;  and,  as  she  swept  across  the  hall  to  the 
drawing-room,  in  her  rich  white  silk  covered  with  black 
chantil/y,  looped  here  and  there  with  pomegranates  as 
scarlet  as  her  lips,  caught  with  diamond  sjjrays  less  bright 
than  her  triumphant  eyes,  she  whispered  to  herself,  "We 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    CODS.  169 

shall  see.     No  man  ever  trifled  with  mc  with  impunity; 
Gare  a  vous  !  Monsieur  Faucett." 

She  endured  the  purgatory  of  an  hour  with  the  ladies 
with  cheerful  resignation,  and  improved  the  occasion  by 
a  few  sweetly-delivered,  spiteful  speeches  on  a  subject 
which  still  rankled. 

When  the  tea-service  was  brought  in,  Miss  Ogilvie — 
looking  more  than  usually  handsome  in  her  ordinary  dress 
of  rich  black  silk  cut  square  at  the  throat,  with  a  ruff  of 
rich  old  lace  standing  around  the  snow-white  neck,  with- 
out other  ornament  than  a  pair  of  valuable  pearls  (her 
mother's  wedding-parure),  which  she  wore  in  her  small 
ears,  and  the  crown  of  dark  hair  which  gave  her  a  queenly 
look — advanced  with  little  Valerie  from  an  obscure  corner 
and  prepared,  as  was  her  custom,  to  make  the  tea. 

"  What  a  very  handsome,  ladylike  creature  that  gov- 
erness is!"  commented  the  duchess,  dropping  her  glass, 
after  a  glance  through  it  in  Anne's  direction.  "  She  has 
quite  the  ' grande  air.'  Indeed,  she  is  far  too  beautiful 
for  most  houses,  but  dear  Earl  d'Hauteville  is  so  madly 
in  love  with  his  own  wife  that  he  has  no  eyes  for  any 
other  woman  !" 

"Ah,  really,"  murmured  Pauline,  with  languid  interest; 
"  and  yet  they  say  he  is  quite  epris  of  the  lovely  governess 
of  late,  although  the  dear  countess  docs  not  dream  of  it 
herself." 

"  Is  it  possible  !"  whispered  the  duchess,  horror-stricken 
already.  "  Surely  some  one  ought  to  warn  the  dear  child. 
What  a  snake  the  woman  must  be  !" 

"Your  Grace  has  reason,"  replied  Pauline;  "some- 
body ought  to  unmask  the  wicked  girl.  Did  you  ever  see 
a  menial — yes,  a  menial,  for,  whatever  her  services,  she  is 
paid  for  them,  is  she  not? — with  that  air  of  the  grafide 
daiiic  that  she  did  not  begin  U)  imagine  herself  mistress? 
H  15 


170 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


I  never  did.  I  had  a  maid  once,"  she  continued,  "  who 
walked  like  an  empress,  and  I  dismissed  her  at  once,  before 
she  could  imagine  herself  Marquise  de  Courboisie.  I 
regretted  her,  for  she  had  superb  taste,  but  que  voulcz-vous ? 
one  must  be  careful." 

"I  shall  certainly  make  it  my  business,"  said  the 
duchess,  "  to  open  this  poor  child's  eyes  before  things  go 
any  further.  It  is  only  a  duty  we  owe  each  other,  and  I 
should  be  rejoiced,  if  such  a  thing  could  be  possible"  (she 
drew  herself  up,  while  the  diamonds  in  her  bosom  flashed 
with  ducal  indignation),  "that  anyone  should  warn  me 
under  such  circumstances." 

"My  Mignon  tells  me,"  drawled  the  marquise,  "that 
the  earl  is  constantly  in  the  school-room  ;  the  little  Valerie 
is  such  a  good  excuse,  you  know. ' ' 

Her  Grace  fairly  bristled.  "It  is  infamous !  the  earl  in 
the  school-room  !     Ah,  I  can  scarcely  contain  myself!" 

She  contained  herself  just  in  time,  for  the  footman 
approached  with  a  salver  laden  with  cups  of  the  chat- 
inspiring  beverage,  and  the  door  opened  to  admit  a  party 
of  gentlemen,  among  them  Dyke  Faucett,  whom  Pauline 
summoned  to  her  side  by  the  faintest  possible  sign  ;  and 
Percy  Tyrrell,  who,  after  a  few  words  with  the  duchess, 
now  all  smiles  and  graciousness,  advanced  to  the  corner 
where  the  tea-maker  rested  from  her  labors. 

"Has  the  'cup  that  cheers'  any  attraction  for  you?" 
she  inquired,  smilingly,  as  he  sank  into  a  causeuse  whose 
corner  touched  her  table. 

"  Have  you  seen  me  show  any  marked  predilection  for 
the  rival  cup,"  he  asked,  "that  you  should  entertain  a 
doubt  on  the  subject?  I  have  been  thirsting  for  this  all 
day,"  he  added,  trying  to  look  in  her  eyes  as  he  took  the 
fragile  wonder  in  egg-shell  china  from  her  hand;  and  then 
noting  the  deepening  color  in  her  cheek,  fastened  his  eyes 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  171 

upon  the  tiny  thumb  which  appeared  over  the  edge  of  the 
saucer.  "  Did  you  know,  Miss  Oi^ilvie,  that  the  thumb  is 
an  index  of  character?" 

"Indeed!"  she  laughed.  "I  am  not  versed  in  the 
science  of  palmology.     What  does  it  denote?" 

"  D'Arpentigny  says,  'L'animal  superieur  est  dans  la 
main,  V homme  dans  la  potice,'  "  quoted  Tyrrell,  gravely 
stirring  his  tea;  "  and  variety  of  character  and  disposition 
is  determined  by  its  dimensions.  Now,  a  thumb  such  as 
I  was  scarcely  able  to  distinguish  on  the  porcelain  of  this 
saucer  a  moment  since  denotes  that  its  owner  is  governed 
in  all  things  more  readily  by  the  heart ;  while  a  person 
with  a  large  thumb,  like  mine,  for  instance,  governs  him- 
self entirely  by  the  head.'" 

"In  short,"  cried  Anne,  smiling,  "the  small  thumbs 
point  out  the  amiable  idiots  among  us,  and  the  large  ones 
the  Solons  and  Platos  !  But  is  this  test  infallible?"  she 
asked.  "Have  you  been  under  obligations  to  your 
monstrous  thumb  for  your  merciful  preservation  all  these 
years  from  the  weaknesses  of  small-thumbed  humanity?" 

"Love,  I  presume  you  mean  by  weaknesses?"  de- 
manded Tyrrell. 

"Yes;  but  perhaps  you  do  not  believe  such  a  thing 
exists.  La  Rochefoucauld  must  have  been  /a;-^'-<?-thumbcd, 
for  he  says,  you  know,  'True  love  is  very  like  an  appa- 
rition ;  everybody  talks  about  it,  but  very  few  have  ever 
seen  it.'  " 

"I  agree  with  him,"  burst  forth  Tyrrell.  ''The  only 
love-affair  I  ever  had  was p/atonic  from  beginning  to  end, 
and  discouraged  me  from  any  further  attempt." 

"Perhaps,"  rejoined  Anne,  "your  admiration  of  this 
man,  with  whose  skepticism  on  sentimental  subjects  you 
'agree'  so  completely,  induced  you  to  form  a  compact 
similar  to  his  own  with  Madame  de  Laf:iyettc.     Nothing 


172 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


could  have  been  freer  from  weakness  than  that  faithful 
friendship." 

Tyrrell  knit  his  brows  a  moment,  and  then — "Ah,  yes, 
I  remember ;  madame  acknowledges  the  platonic  liaison, 
on  the  ground,  '  he  gives  me  mind  and  I  reform  his  heart.^ 
Was  not  that  the  tie?" 

"Yes;  very  sensible,  but  unsatisfying,  I  fancy.  A 
woman's  world  cannot  be  peopled  by  her  brain  ;  her 
affections  are  her  existence ;  all  the  poets  and  romancers 
are  unanimous  in  that  conclusion." 

"  And  you?  Do  you  share  their  opinion?  You  seem 
to  live  and  thrive,  and  yet  I  doubt  the  atmosphere  about 
you  being  over- freighted  with  affection  or  tenderness." 
He  glanced,  as  he  spoke,  at  the  coldly-impassive  face  of 
the  countess,  who  seemed  absorbed  in  earnest  converse 
with  her  Grace,  who,  panting  once  more  with  righteous 
wrath,  delivered  herself.  Anne's  face  saddened ;  with 
eyes  bent  upon  the  hands  lying  clasped  on  her  lap,  she 
remained  silent. 

Tyrrell,  regretting  that  he  had  so  clouded  the  brightness 
of  that  face,  changed  the  subject  abruptly,  and  asked, 
"  Did  you  see  the  sunset  this  evening.  Miss  Ogilvie?  It 
was  unusually  fine." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  answered.  "The  superb  sunsets  here 
compose  my  gallery  of  pictures ;  I  never  miss  adding  one 
to  my  collection  if  I  can  possibly  help  it.  I  have  seen 
the  'morning  hours'  called  the  'prose  of  the  day;'  surely 
our  exquisite  twilights  are  its  'poetry.'  Valerie  and  I 
generally  walk  to  the  ruins  of  the  monastery  to  see  the 
sun  go  down  behind  the  hills.  Do  you  know  the  end  of 
the  cloister  where  the  great  oriel  stood?"  He  nodded. 
"We  sit  there,  on  that  crumbling  ledge,  and  look  out, 
as  it  were,  from  the  A'i.v  of  a  theatre  on  the  great  pano- 
rama which  stretches  out  from  that  view.      J   think,"  she 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE   GODS.  173 

went  on,  while  a  dreamy  softness  came  into  the  blue  eyes, 
— "I  think  when  that  misty  veil  is  drawn  over  the  vivid 
green  of  all  those  billowy  meadows,  reaching  to  the  very 
foot  of  the  hills,  while  the  sleepy  cattle  browse  gently,  or 
lie  about  enjoying  the  rest  and  quiet,  after  the  burden  and 
heat  of  the  day,  one  cannot  help  drawing  a  part  of  that 
peace  and  tranquillity  into  ©ne's  very  soul.  I  always  come 
back  to  the  school-room  feeling  as  if  I  had  taken  a  fresh 
draught  of  patience  and  strength  ;  and  sometimes  both  are 
needed,"  she  added,  smiling. 

Tyrrell  replaced  his  now  empty  cup  on  the  table,  and 
then  said,  earnestly,  "  I  have  been  trying  to  obtain  some 
information  in  regard  to  your  brother.  Miss  Ogilvie.  A 
friend  of  mine,  an  American,  is  in  Paris  at  this  moment, 
and  I  saw  some  of  his  people  yesterday  in  town.  They 
are  moving  heaven  and  earth  to  get  communication  with 
him,  and  if  they  succeed  you  will  have  tidings  of  your 
brother." 

~  "  Oh,  how  can  I  thank  you?"  broke  from  Anne's  lips, 
as  her  face  beamed  with  joy.  "  I  have  been  so  hopeless 
lately  of  ever  being  able  to  discover  any  truth  about  my 
poor  Dick.  How  very  good  you  are !  It  was  for  this,  then, 
that  you  missed  the  hunt  to-day?" 

Tyrrell  laughed.  "It  was  not  a  heart-breaking  disap- 
pointment. There  are  plenty  of  foxes  in  the  world  un- 
slain,  but  there  are  few  opportunities  of  winning  such 
grateful  smiles.  May  I  not  wear  one  of  them  in  my 
memory  rather  than  the  brush  in  my  hat-band,  if  I  please?" 

That  treacherous,  quick  Irish  blood  dyed  Anne's  cheek 
again  with  its  scarlet  signal  of  distress,  and  once  more 
Percival  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Poor  Paris !"  he  murmured.  "I  fear  there  is  but  little 
hope  of  her  coming  out  of  this  fierce  fire  unscorched. 
Everything    seems    against    them;     continual    reverses, 

15* 


174 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


treachery,  mistrust  everywhere.  And  yet  one's  sympathy 
is  tempered  by  the  thouglit  that  they  brought  all  these 
disasters  on  themselves,  the  madmen  !" 

"Oh,  but  that  only  makes  it  the  more  pitiable,"  urged 
Anne.  "A  ship  wrecked  by  a  storm,  with  its  crew  on 
board,  is  sorrowful  enough,  but  a  ship  wrecked  wantonly 
by  the  grasping,  cruel  greed  of  a  mutinous/t'W,  is  heart- 
rending,— is  it  not?" 

"  You  are  right.  Waterloo  was  less  humiliating  than 
Sedan.  I  am  afraid  there  is  nothing  left  for  poor  France 
now  but  Oliver  Cromwell's  dernier  i-essort." 

"  What  was  that?"  asked  Anne,  anxiously. 

"  His  despairing  command  to  his  soldiers:  'Put  your 
trust  in  God,  and  keep  your  powder  dry,'  "answered  Tyrrell. 

Anne's  smile  was  sad  as  tears.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "all 
earthly  trust  seems  to  have  been  misplaced  ;  they  are  un- 
doubtedly doomed.' ' 

Before  her  companion  had  time  to  restore  the  cheerful 
serenity  of  her  habitual  expression  by  a  more  successful 
effort  at  changing  the  conversation,  the  earl  had  sauntered 
up  to  the  tea-table,  and  drawing  little  Valerie  away  from 
Miss  Ogilvie's  side,  where  she  always  nestled  contentedly 
during  the  hour  or  two  Anne  was  expected  to  remain  in 
tlie  drawing-room,  he  asked,  while  he  caressed  gently  the 
golden  curls,  "  What  depth  of  metaphysics  or  philosophy 
has  Colonel  Tyrrell  plunged  you  into.  Miss  Ogilvie, — you 
have  both  looked  so  solemn  during  this  last  quarter  of  an 
hour?" 

"Oh,  nothing  so  abstract  or  so  agreeable  as  those 
interesting  theories,"  replied  Anne,  rallying  with  an 
effort;  "we  were  speaking  of  the  peril  of  poor  France, 
and  her  sufferings." 

"And  may  I  have  some  tea  if  I  try  to  demonstrate  to 
the  best  of  my  ability  that  this  scourging  will   ultimately 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  175 

benefit  'poor  France,'  who  undoubtedly  needed  to  be 
brought  to  her  senses?" 

Anne,  smiling,  handed  him  his  tea,  quite  cold,  but 
sufficient  pretext  to  warrant  the  earl's  seating  himself  in 
the  chair  Tyrrell  had  vacated  at  that  moment. 

As  he  stirred  the  unpalatable  concoction,  wondering 
what  he  should  say  to  this  handsome  girl  a  propos  of 
France's  scourging,  now  that  he  had  ousted  Tyrrell, 
Anne's  eyes  followed  the  latter  as  he  lounged  across  the 
room  and  sank  with  indolent  grace  into  ?l  fduteiiilhy  the 
Marquise  de  Courboisie,  from  whom  Dyke  Faucett  had 
craved  leave  of  absence  in  favor  oi  Just  one  little  cigar, 
and  I  fear  there  was  a  wistful  regret  in  their  blue  depths, 

''  What  could  be  expected?"  the  earl's  voice  broke  in. 
"  Paris  was  pampered  at  the  expense  of  the  provinces; 
the  police  and  the  press  hampered  with  restrictions;  the 
supremacy  of  the  priesthood  daily  increasing ;  and  all 
these  things,  symptoms  of  a  tottering  government,  were 
ignored  by  the  people  until  too  late.  The  fact  is,  the 
French  were  too  completely  bewildered  by  the  magnitude 
of  their  position  of  late  ;  they  resorted  to  mean  and  futile 
devices  to  increase  it  overwhelmingly,  and  their  fall  was 
sure."  The  earl  sipped  his  cold  tea  with  a  pleasant  con- 
viction that  Anne  must  be  duly  impressed  by  these  well- 
ventilated  sentiments.     But  she  only  sighed  and  said, — 

"Ah,  yes;  it  is  very,  very  sad," — as  she  might  have 
assented  to  the  most  commonplace  observation  delivered 
by  any  other  than  a  peer  of  the  realm,  and  a  member  of 
the  House  of  Lords,  where  his  opinions  were  not  denied 
weight !  And  then  she  asked  :  "  Do  you  think,  Lord 
d'Hauteville,  that  the  siege  r^z;/  be  prolonged  to  any  greater 
extent?  Are  not  the  people  starving?''  Her  voice 
trembled,  and  a  slight  shudder  passed  over  her  as  the  last 
word  escaped. 


1^6  THE   MILLS    OF    THE    GODS. 

"■  I  very  much  fear  they  are,"  replied  his  lordship, — ''at 
least  the  aged  and  the  children,  who  cannot  exist  on  coarse 
food — and  little  of  it.  Some  of  the  accounts  are  harrow- 
ing indeed  ;  let  us  hope  there  is  much  exaggeration,  which 
is  most  probable."  And  the  kind-hearted  earl  turned  to 
his  little  daughter  again,  and  drawing  her  affectionately  to 
his  knee  :  "  Is  this  little  girl  all  that  can  be  desired,  Miss 
Ogilvie?"  he  inquired,  pinching  the  dimpled  cheeks  with 
gentle  fondness. 

"Indeed  yes,"  the  young  governess  replied,  eagerly. 
"  She  is  as  sweet  and  good  and  lovable  as  she  can  be.  She 
is  improving  so  much  in  her  French  too.  Speak  to  papa  in 
French,  darling;"  but  Valerie  hung  her  head  and  was  mute. 

"  How  do  you  manage  to  keep  her  so  shy  and  retiring?" 
the  earl  asked,  well  pleased, — "so  different  from  the  pert 
forwardness  of  the  precocious  young  ladies  of  her  acquaint- 
ance, who  are  only  too  obnoxiously  ready  to  exhibit  their 
accomplishments 

"  I  fancy  there  is  a  good  deal  of  the  violet  in  the  na- 
ture of  my  little  Valerie,"  replied  Anne,  coloring  with 
pleasure  at  the  faint  word  of  praise  which  rarely  greeted 
her  best  endeavors.  "She  is  naturally  timid,  and  very 
sensitive, — almost  too  much  so,  I  fear,  for  her  own  happi- 
ness."    And  she  looked  lovingly  at  her  little  charge. 

Silence  a  moment,  and  then  Valerie  spoke,  drawing 
closer  within  her  father's  arms:  "  Why  do  you  not  go 
out  with  us,  papa,  as  you  used  ?  It  has  been  four  weeks 
(is  it  not  four  weeks,  Miss  Ogilvie?)  since  you  walked  to 
the  monastery  with  us  I  When  will  you  come  with  us 
again?  We  miss  you  so  much;  do  we  not?"  nodding 
appealingly  at  Anne  for  confirmation. 

"It  would  be  far  pleasanter  were  papa  to  join  your 
rambles,  darling,  iox you ;  but  would  it  be  so  agreeable  to 
papa?  that  is  the  question,"  Anne  remonstrated. 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  ij-j 

"  'To  be,  or  not  to  be/  papa?"  laughed  Valerie,  her 
shyness  vanishing  before  her  father's  affectionate  glance 
and  the  loving  pressure  of  his  arms  about  her.  "Are  we 
to  have  you  for  one  little,  wee  hour,  away  from  all  these 
grand  people,  in  the  old  jolly  way,  before  they  came  here, 
— every  evening  before  dinner?  Oh,  yes;  say  yes,  dear 
papa.  Do  help  me  to  persuade  him.  Miss  Ogilvie  ;  nobody 
could  refuse  _)w^  anything  ;  and  Colonel  Tyrrell  is  not  half 
so  amusing  as  papa." 

A  quick  gleam  of  intelligence  shot  forth  from  the  earl's 
eyes  right  into  Anne's,  as  her  cheek  crimsoned.  "Then 
you  have  found  a  substitute  for  papa  already  !  Ah,  in- 
constant little  girl !  How  can  you  expect  me  to  forgive 
such  treachery?" 

Valerie's  eyes  filled.  "Oh,  papa,  it  was  not  I  who 
wanted  him  ;  that  is,  I  t/o  like  him  very,  very  much ;  but 
I  never  asked  him  to  fill  jour  place.  I  love  you  best, 
of  course,  and  he  shall  never  go  again  if  you  will  only 
promise  to  come  with  us;  shall  he,  dear  Miss  Ogilvie?" 
Whether  Anne  would  have  perjured  herself  under  stress 
of  severe  embarrassment  is  not  known  ;  for  at  that  instant 
Lady  d'Hauteville  approached,  with  an  unwonted  cloud 
upon  her  placid  brow,  and  the  icy  breath  of  the  glacier  in 
her  clear,  cold  voice,  which  seemed  to  cut  deeper  than 
Anne's  ears  as  these  words  dropped  from  her  compressed 
lips:  "I  should  like  a  few  moments'  conversation  with 
Miss  Ogilvie  in  the  library,  if  she  is  disengaged." 

The  earl,  whose  practiced  ear  recognized  the  bugle-note 
of  danger, — with  a  pang  of  sympathy  in  his  heart  for 
Anne, — arose,  and,  taking  Valerie  by  the  hand,  strolled 
into  the  conservatory,  while  the  poor  young  governess, 
struck  dumb  by  this  unprecedented  summons,  followed  the 
countess  mechanically  from  the  roo.n. 

H* 


178  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

The  library  was  but  dimly  lighted,  and  as  her  lady- 
ship sank  with  an  exhausted  air  into  a  large  arm-chair 
drawn  up  in  front  of  the  blazing  wood-fire,  the  expression 
of  cold  severity  in  her  face  was  plainly  distinguishable, 
but  of  Anne's,  as  she  stood  by  the  chimney-piece  with 
one  hand  resting  lightly  on  its  carved  surface,  nothing 
could  be  discerned  save  that  her  head  was  carried  rather 
more  erect  than  usual,  and  the  color  seemed  to  have  all 
faded  out  of  her  poor  face. 

"  Miss  Ogilvie,"  began  the  countess,  "I  have  desired 
this  interview,  that  I  might  acquaint  you  with  the  fact 
that  for  the  future  your  presence  will  not  be  required  in 
the  drawing-room,  or  indeed  outside  your  own  apart- 
ments, excepting  during  those  hours  when  you  walk  with 
Lady  Valerie  iJi  the  grounds, — outside  of  them  I  do  not 
wish  her  to  go." 

"Very  well,"  were  the  only  words  Anne  could  force 
her  tongue  to  pronounce,  and  turned  towards  the  door. 
Her  hand  was  on  the  knob,  when  with  an  effort  she  re- 
traced her  steps,  and,  coming  close  to  the  countess's  side, 
said,  gently,  "  May  I  not  know  in  what  I  have  offended, 
or  failed  in  my  duty?" 

"I  have  no  complaint  to  make,"  returned  that  lady, 
wliile  her  white  face,  with  its  pale-colored  eyes  and  straw- 
colored  lashes,  and  the  thin-lipped  small  mouth,  which 
could  smile  so  sweetly  when  it  cliose,  and  could  be  so 
very  "firm"  where  tl-e  convenances  w^x^  assailed,  seemed 
to  grow  colder  still  in  the  fire-light.  "  Towards  Valerie, 
you  arc  all  ihat  can  be  desired  ;   I  have  nothing  fui  thcr  to 


THE  MILLS  OF   THE    GODS. 


179 


say."  She  waved  a  thin  hand,  bloodless  but  begemmed, 
in  token  of  dismissal,  and  Anne,  bending  her  head 
slightly,  left  the  room. 

The  earl's  slumbers  were  somewhat  protracted  the  next 
morning,  the  natural  result  of  having  been  called  upon,  in 
the  dead  of  night,  to  extenuate  his  marital  probity  to  his 
outraged  spouse. 

Her  grace  the  duchess  slept  profoundly,  and,  I  fear, 
snored,  for  she  was  a  bonne  vivante,  and  inclined  to  cor- 
pulence ;  and 

Lamartine's  "Confidences"  received  their  initiatory 
baptism  of — tears. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

An  unwonted  darkness  brooded  over  the  distorted  face 
of  suffering  Paris  on  the  night  of  the  25th  of  January, 
1871. 

Rain  poured  down  in  torrents;  the  guards  who  patrolled 
the  outer  Boulevards  and  the  Place  de  la  Bastille  were 
chilled  to  the  hearts,  under  their  dripping  water-proof 
capes,  and  the  soughing  of  the  Avind,  through  the  almost 
deserted  streets,  sounded  like  the  wail  of  a  lost  spirit. 

The  Communists,  since  their  last  defeat  at  the  Hotel  de 
Ville,  had  been  apparently  tranquil ;  but  Flourens,  cha- 
fing at  delay,  was  biding  his  time.  The  people  of  Paris 
seemed  stunned  for  the  moment  by  the  fact  that  the 
enemy  was  at  their  very  gates,  but  they  soon  rallied,  and 
capitulation  was  as  strenuously  opposed  as  ever.  But,  by 
whom?  The  governor  of  Paris  had  sworn  to  die  before 
he  would  give  up  the  city,  it  is  true,  but  the  National 


I  So        THE  MILLS   OF  THE    CODS. 

Guard,  stirred  up  by  that  eloquent  fire-brand,  Gambetta, 
and  the  starving,  wretched,  broken-hearted,  but  not 
broken-spirited,  population  of  women,  cried  out,  "After 
the  forts  the  barricades,  and  after  the  barricades,  we  will 
burn  the  city  ;  that  resource  remains  to  us  !" 

All  this  time  the  French  and  Prussian  batteries  were  ex- 
changing fire;  mitrailleuse  and  cannon  were  stationed 
before  the  Hotel  de  Ville  and  the  Louvre,  on  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli,  and  the  various  Places  ;  battalions  of  National 
Guards  assembled  daily,  while  regiments  of  infantry  and 
cavalry,  and  Mobiles,  occupied  the  other  side  of  the 
Champs  Elysees. 

Provisions  were  almost  exhausted;  meat,  excepting  the 
high-flavored  horse-flesh  and  the  succulent  rat,  had  en- 
tirely given  out ;  the  infirm  and  the  aged  were  dying  as 
fast  as  the  helpless  children,  of  hunger  and  cold  and 
despair. 

It  was  close  upon  midnight,  and  still  the  rain  came 
down,  and  the  wind  howled  drearily,  mingling  its  woeful 
voice  with  the  occasional  booming  of  the  cannon  from 
the  forts. 

Dora  drew  her  watch  from  her  bosom,  and,  leaning 
towards  the  lantern  hung  against  the  wall,  murmured  to 
herself,  "  Midnight,  and  he  has  not  yet  come  ;  what  can 
it  mean?     Agnes!"  she  called,  softly. 

It  was  a  long  room  lined  each  side  by  narrow  cots,  in 
each  of  which  lay,  in  the  sleep  of  exhaustion,  or  tossed  in 
the  restlessness  of  pain,  a  victim  to  the  chasscpots  or  the 
nlidelirewehr  of  civilized  warfare.  Over  the  head  of  each 
bed  hung  a  little  ticket,  bearing  the  number  by  which  its 
occupant  was  designated. 

Kneeling  at  the  bedside  of  No.  16,  Agnes  was  striving 
to  cool  the  burning  head  of  a  poor  fellow  who  had  suf- 
fered amputation  of  both  limbs    the  previous  day,  and 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    CODS.  i8i 

whom  fever  was  fast  destroying.  He  was  a  mere  lad, — 
not  eighteen, — and  had  a  comely,  provincial  face,  whose 
honest  blue  eyes  filled  with  grateful  tears  more  than 
once,  as  Agnes  bathed  his  forehead  with  iced  water  and 
turned  his  hot  pillow  with  dexterous  hand. 

At  a  little  distance  stood  another  angel  of  mercy,  wear- 
ing the  Geneva  cross  on  her  sleeve, — a  French  lady  of 
rank,  Madame  de  Bergeret.  Her  husband,  in  the  army  of 
Napoleon,  had  fallen  on  that  disastrous  day  at  Sedan,  and 
when  the  news  was  gently  broken  to  her,  and  she  was  im- 
plored not  to  give  way  under  her  bitter  trial,  she  drew  her- 
self up,  and  said,  proudly,  without  a  tear,  "Give  way? 
Wherefore  should  I  break  down  ?  Had  my  Victor  owned 
a  thousand  lives  they  should  each  have  been  dedicated  to 
our  France  !  He  died  gloriously,  as  the  Emperor  should 
have  done,  on  the  field  of  battle."  If  she  ever  wept  her 
Victor,  it  was  in  the  dead  watches  of  the  night,  and  the 
story  of  his  life's  sacrifice  was  recounted,  dry-eyed,  by 
her  to  many  a  wounded  soldier  nursed  by  her  unflinching 
but  tender  hands.  She  was  invaluable  as  nurse  during 
operations  which  caused  both  Dora  and  Agnes  to  grow 
faint  and  useless ;  her  eagle  eye  and  strong  dark  face 
never  blenched  where  nerve  and  pluck  were  imperatively 
demanded. 

"Agnes,"  asked  Dora,  in  a  whisper,  approaching  the 
cot  of  No.  1 6,  "  is  it  not  strange  tliat  Mr.  Buchanan  has 
not  been  here  all  day,  or  to-night?  Can  anything  new 
have  happened  in  Paris,  do  you  think?  and  it  storms  so 
terribly."  She  ceased,  with  a  slight  shudder  ;  it  was  chill 
in  that  dim-lighted,  carpetless  room  after  midnight. 

"  Nothing  new,  dear, "answered  Agnes;  "  but  how  pale 
and  weary  you  look,  Dora  !  Ah,  give  up  to-night,  and 
rest  a  little.  You  have  no  right  to  destroy  yourself;  think 
of  little  Marian.     Where  is  she  ?" 

i6 


iS2  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

"Come  and  see  her,"  answered  Dora;  and,  after  a 
few  words  to  Madame  de  Bergeret  (Soeur  Therese,  as 
she  was  known  in  the  ambulance),  they  left  the  room 
together. 

Just  outside,  in  the  corridor,  was  a  little  "cabinet" 
devoted  to  the  storing  of  lint,  bandages,  splints,  etc.,  and 
containing  a  sofix,  a  table,  and  a  chair.  On  this  sofa  Dora 
had  obtained  permission  to  lay  her  last  remaining  treasure, 
wrapped  in  the  woolen  cloak  (which  covered  her  from 
neck  to  heel  when  she  went  into  the  streets),  on  the  three 
nights  weekly  which  were  allotted  to  herself  and  Agnes 
to  watch  by  the  bedsides  of  the  wounded.  Little  Marian 
slept  here  very  comfortably,  and  on  the  alternate  nights 
shared  tlie  poor  room  which  Dora  and  Agnes  occupied 
near  by,  where  they  tried  to  find  rest  on  a  mattress  of 
husks,  and  to  warm  their  half-frozen  feet  and  benumbed 
fingers  over  a  couple  of  miserable  chauffereties. 

But  Marian  was  warm  and  comfortable  to-night,  for 
there  was  a  small  stove  in  the  room  used  for  preparing 
messes  for  the  patients  outside.  There  she  lay  curled  up 
like  a  little  white  rabbit,  under  the  warm  folds  of  the  woolen 
cloak  ;  all  her  golden  curls  in  disorder,  her  thin  little  face 
flushed  with  sleep,  and  the  sweet,  red  lips  parted  with  the 
soft,  regular  breathing  of  health. 

"How  well  she  looks,"  whispered  Agnes,  "and  how 
lovely  !  Could  you  not  lie  down  with  her  there  for  a 
little  quarter  of  an  hour?  I  will  watch,  and  awake  you  at 
one  o'clock." 

"  Oh,  Agnes,  if  she  had  died  !"  cried  Dora,  unheeding 
the  last  suggestion,  and  gazing  at  her  idol  with  love- 
brimming  eyes.  "  I  could  not  have  borne  it ;  indeed,  I 
could  not." 

"  liut  she  (lid  not  die,"  returned  the  more  practical 
Agnes,  "  and  you  must  try  your  very  best  to  get  stronger 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


1S3 


yourself,  or  you  may  be  called  to  bear  a  heavier  sorrow 
than  that." 

"Oh,  what,  Agnes,  what  do  you  mean?  Could  any- 
ihi/ig  be  harder  to  bear  than  to  see  her  die?" 

"Yes:  to  die  yourself,  and  leave  her,  as  I  was  left, — 
alone  on  the  charity  of  the  world,"  answered  Agnes. 
"Now,  dear,  you  will  rest  awhile,  and,"  taking  from  her 
pocket  a  piece  of  dark-looking  bread,  "eat  this;  I  had 
more  than  I  wanted  to-day." 

"Oh,  Agnes,  was  there  ever  such  an  unselfish  angel  as 
you  on  earth  before?" 

But  Agnes  had  vanished  to  her  post  by  No.  16,  and 
Dora,  with  a  moan  of  real  weariness,  threw  herself  on  the 
hard  couch  beside  little  Marian,  holding  fast  in  her  hand 
the  morsel  of  bread,  lest  her  child  should  awake  hungry, 
as  she  very  frequently  did,  poor  little  dear  ! 

How  long  she  slept  she  knew  not ;  but  she  was  awakened 
by  the  tramp  of  many  feet  outside  in  the  corridor  and 
the  subdued  hum  of  many  voices.  The  lantern  hung  in 
the  centre  of  the  cabinet  \\2iS,  burning  dimly,  and  a  few 
struggling  rays  of  light  through  the  persiennes  assured 
her  of  the  commencement  of  another  day. 

It  was  five  o'clock,  that  hour  in  winter  the  most  chill 
ami  comfortless  of  all  the  twenty-four.  Dora  rose  to  her 
feet  stiff  and  un refreshed,  and  tottered  to  the  door,  for 
there  was  certainly  a  fresh  arrival  of  wounded,  and  her 
services  might  be  needed. 

As  she  opened  her  door,  four  men  carrying  a  litter,  on 
which  was  lying  a  form  with  a  handkerchief  thrown  over 
the  face,  wearing  the  uniform  of  a  National  Guard,  passed 
her.  By  the  side  of  the  litter  walked  Ronald  Buchanan, 
his  face  white  and  rigid.  Dora  trembled,  and  a  fear  shot 
through  her  heart  born  of  sympathy  and  cpiic  k  intuition. 

"Can  it  be  the  friend — his  fricntl — of  whom  he  has 


1 84        THE  MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 

spoken  so  often  to  us,  who  was  in  the  Gardes  Nationales, 
and  whom  he  has  not  seen  for  days?"  She  waited  breath- 
lessly, until  they  had  disrobed  the  senseless  form  and  laid 
him  on  his  cot ;  and  then  behind  the  screen  which  was 
drawn  around  him,  whence  only  a  few  stifled  moans  be- 
trayed that  he  still  lived,  Buchanan  was  tenderly  dressing 
the  frightful  wound  which  had  laid  open  poor  Ogilvie's 
skull  by  an  inglorious  sabre-cut  in  the  hand  of  a  drunken 
Mobile.  For,  amid  all  the  other  horrors  of  famine,  cold, 
and  want,  the  "wet  damnation"  of  drunkenness  had  crept 
into  the  ranks  of  the  soldiery  to  a  fearful  extent. 

That  night  a  party  of  Mobiles  had  demanded  entrance 
at  the  house  of  a  respectable  bourgeois,  whose  two  sons 
had  gone  to  fight  for  their  country.  The  old  man  was 
suspected  of  having  stored  up  provisions,  and  these  hungry, 
absinthe-maddened  wretches  broke  in  upon  his  startled 
family,  devoured  all  they  could  get,  and  frightened  the 
women  out  of  their  senses.  They  were  proceeding  to 
institute  an  orgie  upon  the  relics  of  some  old  Burgundy 
found  in  the  cellar,  when  two  or  three  National  Guards 
passed  the  open  door.  Hearing  cries  for  help,  and  the 
sobs  of  women,  they  entered  unceremoniously,  and  soon 
a  terrible  conflict  was  taking  place  in  the  comfortable 
sitting-room  of  the  family.  The  Mobiles  were  two  to 
one,  and  well-armed  ;  but,  being  all  of  them  more  or  less 
intoxicated,  the  contest  was  equalized.  What  the  result 
would  have  been,  Heaven  knows,  had  they  not  been  in- 
terrupted at  the  height  of  the  melee  by  a  posse  of  gens- 
d'armes,  whom  the  incessant  screams  of  the  women  had 
attracted  to  the  scene. 

The  Frenchmen  fought  like  devils ;  Ogilvie  fought  like 
a  Briton.  They  fired  here,  there,  and  everywhere  ;  slashed 
with  their  swords'  and  sacre'd  in  guttural  gasps.  Ogilvie 
used  his  fists;   down  went  a  spluttering  Gaul,  who  was 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  185 

brandishing  his  sword  over  the  young  Englishman's  head  ; 
down,  as  if  dead  at  his  feet,  with  one  blow  between  the 
eyes  ;  down  went  a  second  victim  to  muscular  science,  and 
a  third  would  have  followed,  had  he  not  struck  viciously 
at  Ocrilvie's  uncovered  head  with  his  sabre.  As  the  door 
burst  open  to  admit  the  gens-d'armes  to  the  rescue,  the 
foremost  one  received  in  his  arms  the  senseless  form  of  a 
man  wearing  the  National  Guard  uniform,  whose  face  was 
deluged  with  blood  from  an  ugly  sabre-cut  over  the  right 
temple. 

Buchanan's  duties  at  the  hospitals  had  been  unremitting 
that  day,  and  he  had  just  turned,  tired  and  sick  at  heart, 
into  the  narrow  street  leading  to  the  ambulance  hospital, 
to  refresh  himself  with  a  sight  of  Dora  and  her  friend, 
when  the  litter-bearers  passed  him,  and  a  fragment  of 
their  conversation  caught  his  ear.  "Yes,"  they  were 
saying,  *'  he  is  certainly  dead,  ce  pauvre  Anglais ;  he  is  a 
fitter  subject  for  a  pine  coffin  than  an  hospital ;  que  diable 
allait-il  faire  a  Paris  ?  If  he  had  remained  in  his  own 
country  he  would  have  saved  his  skull. ' '  Buchanan  waited 
under  the  lantern  at  the  entrance  to  the  hospital,  and 
when  they  approached  and  he  saw  lying  senseless,  under 
the  pouring  rain,  the  ghastly  face  of  the  jovial  chum  of 
many  long  years,  his  heart  quailed  within  him,  and  his 
hand  trembled  as  he  threw  over  the  poor,  drawn  face  his 
pocket-handkerchief.  His  voice  was  almost  choked  when 
he  addressed  a  few  inquiries  to  the  bearers  of  this  sad 
burden,  and  directed  them  where  to  place  it. 

The  day  was  far  advanced  before  Ronald  stirred  from 
behind  the  screen  which  still  sheltered  poor  Ogilvie  from 
the  gaze  of  others,  and  when  he  came  forth  he  looked  wan 
and  ill,  and  very  anxious,  for  he  was  very  doubtful  of  the 
success  of  the  trepanning  which  had  been  necessary  in  this 
case,  and  he  had  conceived  a  warm   friendship  for  this 


1 86         THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

whole-souled,  fearless,  generous-hearted    man,  which  he 
was  slow  to  form,  and  gave  not  lightly  up  when  formed. 

Dora  had  been  watching  for  him  all  the  morning,  with 
a  heart  full  of  sympathy,  and  eyes  full  of  pity  (for  she 
knew  now  that  it  was  his  English  friend  whose  life  was 
apparently  ebbing  away);  but  she  was  engaged  far  off  at 
the  bed  of  a  convalescent,  reading,  as  she  had  promised, 
a  page  of  the  Gaulois  to  him. 

She  saw  Agnes  meet  Ronald  as  he  emerged,  and  hand 
him  the  cup  of  coffee  which  they  had  prepared  together, 
and  as  she  noted  the  sweet  smile  which  lit  his  sad  face  for 
a  moment  as  he  thanked  Agnes  for  her  thoughtfulness,  a 
sharp  pang  struck  through  her  heart.  She  did  not  hear 
Agnes's  eager  reply, — "It  was  Dora's  suggestion;  she 
feared  you  would  feel  faint  from  exhaustion.  Is  the  poor 
man's  wound  fatal?" 

"  I  fear  so  ;  he  seems  sinking.  It  was  a  terrible  gash  ; 
the  only  wonder  is  that  he  lived  to  get  here." 

He  put  down  the  coffee,  untasted,  and  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands.  Agnes  stood  silent;  she  dared  ask  no 
further  question. 

After  a  moment, — "  It  is  Ogilvie  ;  my  friend,  and  Sister 
Agnes," — a  little  effort  at  a  smile, — "I  want  to  put  him 
under  your  charge  until  all  is  over, — may  I  ?  He  cannot 
last  long,  and  I  should  like  him  to  be  carefully  tended ;  I 
will  be  with  him  as  much  as  possible." 

"I  shall  do  my  best;  do  not  despair.  Think  how 
many  have  been  given  up  for  dead  who  have  recovered. 
If  careful  nursing  will  save  him  he  shall  not  die." 

Ronald  took  her  hand  in  his,  as  he  had  done  once 
before,  when  he  confided  Dora  to  her  charge  (how  long 
ago  that  seemed !),  and  said,  "  I  thank  you ;  you  are  indeed 
a  sister  of  mercy  and  loving-kindne.ss." 

Dora,  afar-off,  watching  this  little  scene,  bent  her  head 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  187 

suddenly  over  the  paper,  the  lines  of  which  swam  before 
her  tear-filled  eyes. 

Ronald  gulped  down  the  coffee  in  three  mouthfuls,  and 
then  disappeared  again  behind  the  screen  with  Agnes. 
He  lingered  there  long  enough  to  give  her  careful  direc- 
tions, and  then,  with  a  long  breath  of  relief,  turned  towards 
the  other  end  of  the  room  where  Dora  still  sat,  reading  to 
the  crusty  little  Frenchman,  who  commented  and  criti- 
cised every  article  with  the  ironical  spleen  of  his  bilious 
little  nature,  until  she  was  ready  to  scream  with  impatience 
and  vexation. 

She  did  not  stop  reading  or  raise  her  head  as  Buchanan 
approached,  she  saw  him  taking  Agnes's  hand  all  over 
the  little  sheet  of  the  Presse ;  and,  when  he  came  quite 
near  and  addressed  her,  to  his  surprise  she  answered 
coldly,  with  scarcely  a  glance,  "I  am  very  well,  thanks; 
and  you?" 

"I  am  not  well,"  he  replied.  "I  had  a  most  exhaust- 
ing day  yesterday, — I  have  been  up  all  night.  Agnes's 
coffee  has  restored  me  somewhat,  but  I  feel  shaky  yet." 

"Why  do  you  not  go  home  and  sleep?"  she  asked, 
anxiety  getting  the  better  of  pique.  "  You  could  have  a 
few  hours  at  least  to-day." 

"I  cannot,"  he  said.  "I  must  not  leave  Ogilvie  for 
an  hour." 

"  Is  it "  she  began  ;  her  voice  broke  down. 

"Yes,"  answered  Buchanan,  shortly;  "I  have  done 
all  I  can  for  him,  and  left  him  in  Agnes's  hands ;  there 
will  be  no  change  for  an  hour,  I  feel  sure.  Could  you  get 
out,  do  you  think  ?  A  turn  in  the  sun  would  do  us  both 
more  good  than  sleep  with  anxious  hearts." 

She  rose  instantly,  and,  putting  on  her  black  bonnet 
and  cloak,  and  Marian's  little  hat  and  jacket,  they  turned 
to  the  door. 


1 88        THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

The  rain  was  over,  and  the  clouds  were  breaking  away 
before  the  face  of  the  sun.  The  streets  looked  clean  and 
bright,  and  people  were  filling  them  in  every  direction. 
A  long  line  of  women  stood  patiently  before  the  door  of 
a  baker,  each  waiting  her  turn  to  get  a  little  loaf  or  two 
of  a  doubtful-colored  bread.  They  passed  a  man  who 
had  four  rats  tied  on  a  stick ;  he  was  selling  them  at  one 
franc  each.  This  sight  seemed  to  recall  something  to 
Ronald's  recollection.  He  thrust  his  hand  into  his  sur- 
tout  pocket  and  drew  forth  two  new-laid  eggs. 

"  I  forgot  these,"  he  said.  "I  brought  them  for  Marian. 
They  cost  me  an  hour's  argument  and  an  amputation. 
Boil  them  for  her  dinner;  but  only  one  at  a  time:  eggs 
are  very  rare." 

Dora  placed  them,  with  a  bright  look  of  gratitude,  in 
the  little  basket  on  her  arm ;  she  was  going  to  do  her 
marketing  for  the  day. 

"Will  you  dine  with  us  to-day?"  she  asked,  archly. 
"We  are  to  have  '  pofage  a  la  printaniere,^  ^  navets  au 
naturel,^  ^ pommes  de  terre  sautees,''  and  black  bread." 

To  her  astonishment  he  answered,  gravely,  "Thanks; 
1  will  dine  with  you  with  pleasure.     At  what  hour?" 

"At  five  o'clock,  in  the  little  'cabinet,'  "  she  replied, 
with  drooping  head  (there  would  not  be  enough  for  two, 
let  alone  tliree,  in  her  little  basket,  even  with  Marian's 
eggs). 

He  watched  her  from  under  his  eyelashes. 

"You  will  not  be  offended  if  I  supplement  your  very 
good  viemi  with  2^ piece  de  resistance  I  was  presented  with 
yesterday  by  the  same  person  from  whom  I  begged  the 
eggs.  He  is  an  old  rascal,  whose  son  was  hurt  on  the 
Place  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  a  week  ago  (I  was  obliged  to 
take  off  one  of  his  arms,  which  was  shattered  by  a  chasse- 
pot),  and  the  old  man  wanted  to  pay  me  in  money  for 


THE   MILLS   OF   TILE    GODS.  i8g 

my  obliging  services.  But  I  had  heard  that  in  his  garret 
he  had  a  poultry-yard,  from  which  he  occasionally  sold  a 
fowl  at  enormous  prices ;  and  I  suggested,  in  view  of  this 
dinner-party,  that  he  should  give  me  as  a  fee  a  couple  of 
good  fowls.  He  consented,  and  gave  me  a  pair  (I  have 
them  safe,  don't  fear).  And  then  I  asked  for  a  few  eggs ; 
but  the  old  fellow  was  immovable,  and  I  could  only  extort 
two  for  my  little  pet.  But  will  you  ask  me  to  dinner  as 
long  as  the  fowls  last?" 

"Indeed,  yes.  Oh,  how  glad  I  am!  Agnes  has  been 
actually  starving." 

"And  you?"  he  said,  tenderly.  "You  are  not  looking 
as  robust  as  you  ought.  You  are  getting  so  small  and 
frail  that  the  wind  will  blow  you  away  from  us  some  day, 
and  then " 

"And  then,"  she  returned,  "  you  will  still  have  Agnes 
left,  and  she  is  the  best  nurse,  you  know,  or  you  would 
not  have  given  her  this  important  post." 

"I  gave  it  her,"  he  replied,  gravely,  "because  it  will 
require  unwearying  attention,  and  that  you  are  not  able 
to  endure  just  now,  nor  would  I  suffer  it  to  be  imposed 
upon  you." 

Ah,  Dora,  keep  those  golden-gleaming  eyes  of  yours 
hidden  under  their  long  lashes,  for  they  are  speaking  to 
the  heart  of  the  man  beside  you  in  a  language  which  you 
never  more  may  use. 

She  was  so  happy.  It  was  not  January,  it  was  surely 
June,  the  sun  was  so  bright  and  warm.  Her  feet  scarcely 
touched  the  earth ;  and,  when  she  returned  to  her  post  in 
the  hospital,  a  lovely  rose-color  made  her  face  radiant  in 
beauty,  and  there  was  a  light  in  her  eyes  born  of  the 
knowledge  that  she  was  beloved. 


190 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

To  every  man  who  has  passed  the  rubicon  of  his  first 
'quarter  century,  whether  by  the  pons  asinorum,  or  other- 
wise, there  have  been  presented  experiences,  however 
widely  differing  in  tone  and  circumstance,  of  the  same 
general  character.  The  tale  of  our  daily  life,  if  carried 
back  a  few  centuries  and  clothed  in  steel  and  fustian, 
would  appear  to  knight  and  yeoman  as  a  specimen, 
strange  only  from  the  extra  bloom,  forced  in  the  hot- 
house of  civilization,  the  kernel  being  always  the 
same. 

It  will  not,  therefore,  be  necessary  for  me  to  explain 
why  the  frugal  repast,  cooked  and  served  by  Dora's  fair 
hands  in  the  petit  cabinet  at  five  o'clock  precisely,  ex- 
ceeded in  delight  any  banquet  of  the  gods  given  on  the 
heights  of  Olympus. 

They  were  all  very  hungry,  to  be  sure,  and  this  in  itself 
is  a  sauce piquante  that  Brillat-Savarin  could  not  concoct. 
The  table  was  laid  for  four,  with  somewhat  cracked  parti- 
colored china,  and  not  much  table  to  spare,  but  the  nappe 
Avas  spotless,  so  were  the  napkins,  and  the  poulet  fricassee 
delicious.  The  vegetable  soup  (vegetable  pur  et  simple) 
was  delicately  flavored  and  hot  (two  good  qualities  for 
soup,  rather  rare),  and,  although  it  looked  un  pea  niaigre, 
the  carrots  and  square  bits  of  turnips  bobbed  up  and  down 
in  an  effort  to  look  jolly,  which  was  laudable,  if  unsuc- 
cessful. T\\t  pommes  de  terrc  sauiees  could  not  have  been 
excelled  at  Philippe's,  and  the  three  hundred  grammes 
of  black  bread  tried  to  hide  themselves  bcliind  the  soup- 
tureen  in  a  shamefaced  sort  of  way. 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  191 

They  were  very  happy,  for  the  critical  hour  when  poor 
Ogilvie's  life  had  hung  in  the  balance  with  death,  and  a 
straw's  weight  would  have  kicked  the  beam,  had  gone  by 
and  left  him  conscious,  and,  although  excessively  pros- 
trated from  loss  of  blood,  restored  to  a  sense  of  outward 
events,  and  on  the  hope-list  of  convalescents.  Ronald 
watched  by  him  until  five  o'clock,  and  then  begging 
Soeur  Therese  to  take  his  place,  joined  Dora,  Agnes,  and 
little  Marian  at  dinner. 

Human  nature  is  an  insolvable  enigma ;   is  it  not  ? 

Here  were  three  people,  possessing  not  one  pound 
sterling  between  them,  who  had  bartered  away,  one  after 
the  other,  every  object  of  value  they  owned  ;  behind  them 
the  past  four  months,  one  series  of  horrors,  privations,  and 
trials ;  before  them  the  future, _a  great,  black,  impenetrable 
cloud  of  certain  calamity ;  around  them  the  moans  of 
the  suffering,  and  the  murmurings  of  rebellion  among  the 
people ;  beyond  these  the  incessant  booming  of  the  can- 
non in  the  distance.  And  yet,  these  three  people,  the 
imaginative,  timid  Dora,  the  thoughtful,  gentle  Agnes,  the 
earnest,  provident  Buchanan,  with  baby  Marian  on  his 
knee,  were  eating  their  fricassee  and  drinking  their  via 
ordinaire  (surely  no  Falernian  ever  tasted  better),  not 
with  long  faces  and  lugubrious  sighs,  but  with  cheery 
words,  and  soft,  musical  laughter,  subdued  from  respect 
to  outsiders,  but  bubbling  from  the  heart  nevertheless, 
while  the  glow  in  Dora's  face  reflected  itself  in  each  of 
those  about  her. 

In  the  life  of  almost  every  woman  there  comes  one  in- 
terval of  happiness  as  free  from  taint  of  earth  as  that 
which  filled  Eve's  soul  as  she  gathered  in  the  sunlight 
of  God's  smile  of  all  the  fruits — save  one — during  the 
guileless  innocence  of  her  first  days  in  Eden,  an  hour 
when  the  unacknowledged  love  in  her  heart  finds  its  re- 


192 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


flection  in  another,  and  the  pure  blossom,  with  the  dew 
still  clinging  to  it,  expands  into  full  flower  in  the  exotic 
atmosphere  of  a  mute  reciprocation  \  a  divine  flower,  not 
breathed  upon  by  vows,  nor  robbed  of  its  bloom  by  hand- 
ling, however  tender,  nor  placed  on  a  level  with  vege- 
tables and  weeds  by  barter,  or  exchange,  or  the  foot- 
trampling  which  is  inevitable  in  the  dense  crowd  of  a 
careless-stepping  humanity. 

In  this  spontaneous  offering  of  soul  to  soul,  needing 
no  words  or  protestations,  but  stealing  into  her  inner 
consciousness,  an  intangible  perfume  of  love,  Dora  saw 
no  danger,  dreamed  not  of  actualities,  accepted  the  beau- 
tiful present  without  a  glance  back  or  forward.  It  was 
only  long  after,  when  life  narrowed  down  to  a  blank 
drawing  of  the  breath, — nothing  more, — when,  while 
the  hands  toiled  patiently,  the  soul  took  its  ease  in  the 
slumbrous  inaction  of  a  dull  despair,  and  the  sacred  fire 
was  quenched  under  the  ceaseless  dripping  of  the  inane 
platitudes  which  fell  upon  her  with  the  stone-wearing  per- 
sistency of  her  forced  surroundings,  it  was  then  that  she 
felt  most  bitterly  the  result  of  having  walked,  in  joyful 
ignorance,  in  that  rarefied  atmosphere  which  tries  too 
severely  human  lungs,  and  leaves  them  ever  after  more 
sensitive  to  the  chill  breath  of  the  world-mistral. 

Had  she  known  what  it  was  that  lifted  the  sad  weight 
from  her  heart,  that  gave  the  days  wings,  and  made  this 
French  ambulance  refuge  a  very  heaven  of  joy  amid  the 
shrieks  and  groans  and  cries  of  a  purgatory  through 
which  she  moved  like  an  angel,  carrying  balm  upon  its 
wings,  her  face  lit  up  with  the  soft  radiance  of  a  loving 
charity  towards  all  the  sorrowing,  the  suffering,  and  the 
sinning,  springing  from  the  fount  of  love  within, — had  she 
known  whence  sprang  that  fount,  she  would  liave  i)lucked 
out  this  new  life  in  her  heart,  then  and  there,  unhesitat- 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 


193 


ingly ;  for  she  was  pure  and  white-souled  as  her  four- 
year-old  Marian. 

But  it  is  not  thus  that  we  are  allowed  to  shape  or  de- 
termine the  weight  of  the  crosses  laid  upon  us.  Our  eyes 
are  sealed,  until  they  assume  such  proportions  as  shall 
chafe  sorely  the  tender  flesh,  and  bring  from  the  heart 
tears  of  blood,  and  bow  the  head  humbly  to  the  eventual 
crowning — let  us  pray — of  immortality. 

And  so  they  dined,  and  chatted,  and  shook  out  the 
golden  dust  from  the  petals  of  a  blissful  present  over  the 
grim,  gaunt  realities  around  them,  until  they  even  laughed 
gleefully  among  themselves,  and  found  as  much  pleasure 
in  the  chocolate-sticks  which  served  as  dessert  as  could  be 
extracted  from  the  pines  and  forced  grapes  of  a  bloated 
sumptuousness. 

"I  do  not  think  I  ever  shall  regret,"  said  Agnes,  nib- 
bling at  her  share  of  that  delicacy,  "  having  been  in  Paris 
during  the  siege ;  it  is  certainly  an  experience  which  {q\^ 
can  count  in  their  lives,  and  I  confess  to  a  leaning  towards 
the  unusual  in  our  daily  walk." 

"  How  very  high  the  convent  walls  must  have  seemed 
to  you!"  laughed  Dora.  "Do  you  imagine  she  could 
have  endured  them  d  la perpetuite?''''  (to  her  vis-a-vis). 

"I  fear  not,"  answered  Ronald,  smiling.  "You  re- 
mind me,  Sister  Agnes,  of  a  speech  of  George  Sehvyn's 
after  a  terrible  orgie  the  night  before :  *  I  look  and  feci 
villainously  bad;  but,  hang  it,  it  is  life  !  it  is  life T 
You  are  willing  to  suffer  all  things  for  the  sake  of  adding 
to  your  experiences." 

"Ah,  not  so  bad  as  tliat,"  she  protested,  laughingly. 
"I  am  not  insatiable  in  search  of  adventure,  though  J 
do  soar  sometimes  above  convent  walls." 

"  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  if  one  of  us  ivas  to  he  shut 

uphere,^'  said  Dora,  "  how  fortunate  it  is  that  wehoth " 

I  17 


194  THE  MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 

{"Both/  do  you  hear  that,  Marian?  JVe are  not  counted 
in,"  interpolated  Buchanan) — "  that  we  both,"  continued 
Dora,  unheeding,  "should  have  been  prevented  from 
escaping.     What  should  I  have  done  without  Agnes?" 

"And  what  would  Agnes  have  done  without  you?"  she 
replied. 

"And  what  would  have  become  of  Marian  and  me 
without  you  both?"  piteously  cried  Ronald,  stealing 
another  chocolate-bar  for  his  little  friend.  "  It  was  all 
foreordained,"  he  continued;  "you  are  aware  that  'there 
is  a  divinity  which  shapes  our  ends,  rough-hew  them  as 
we  may'  (so  the  Bard  of  Avon  assures  us),  therefore  the 
inscrutable  hand  of  fate  has  brought  together  these  three 
noble  specimens  of  three  separate  nationalities ;  for  you 
call  yourself  American,  do  you  not?" 

Dora  raised  her  head  a  trifle  proudly,  as  she  answered, 
"Certainly;  I  was  born  under  the  shelter  of  the  great 
republic,  in  its  noble  forest  and  among  its  kindly  people; 
surely  I  can  be  proud  of  my  nationality,  and  of  that  glo- 
rious country?" 

"  Yes,"  Ronald  answered,  gravely.  "  You  own  a  noble 
birthright  in  claiming  as  your  native  land  this  vigor- 
ous offspring  of  dear  old  England.  America  has  always 
commanded  my  admiration,  and  of  late  years  my 
sincere  respect ;  she  has  wiped  out  gloriously  the  great 
stain  of  slavery,  which  was  the  only  grave  blot  on  her 
escutcheon." 

Dora's  eyes  shone.  "  I  do  love  to  hear  America  praised 
by  an  Englishman,"  she  said;  "generally  they  feel  it  a 
bounden  duty  to  snub  us  d  V oiitrance ;  I  was  always  bris- 
tling like  a  porcupine  among  the  English  residents  in 
Rome." 

"Really,"  exclaimed  Agnes,  "I  could  not  have  im- 
agined you  would  show  so  much  spirit  in  waving  your 


THE   MILLS    OF   TLIE    GODS.  ipt 

'stars  and  stripes';  it  is  positively  bringing  some  color  into 
your  cheeks." 

Dora  laughed.  "  Let  us  have  some  of  your  '  Ach  Gott ! 
mein  liebe  Vaterland,'  from  you  now,  Agnes,  and  then  Mr, 
Buchanan  will  sing  '  God  save  the  Queen,'  and  we  will 
disperse  quietly." 

"No,"  answered  Buchanan,  "  you  shall  have  no  roar 
from  John  Bull  to-night ;  he  is  in  a  quiescent  frame  of 
mind,  not  to  be  piqued  or  driven  into  any  enthusiastic 
demonstration  whatever:  he  is  simply  thankful  that  he 
— exists." 

"And  yet,"  said  Agnes,  "I  have  heard  of  people, 
under  pleasanter  circumstances  than  yours  at  present,  re- 
gretting that  they  ever  had  been  born;  how  strange  that 
seems  to  me  ! ' ' 

"And,"  Ronald  rejoined,  "  I  have  no  doubt  there  are 
instances  on  record,  of  people  who  would  feel  grateful  if 
the  same  extinction  of  existence  were  extended  to  some 
of  their  relatives  and  acquaintances." 

"Oh,  how  dreadful  !"  exclaimed  Agnes  and  Dora  to- 
gether; and  the  latter  continued, — 

"  One  who  stands  alone,  without  a  connection  or  near 
relative,  feels  this  almost  a  blasphemy."  She  looked  sad 
for  a  moment. 

Ronald  regretted  his  last  speech,  and  returned  to  the 
first  idea  :  "Do  you  not  think  that  there  are  some  people 
in  the  world  who  care  little  for  life?  The  great  host  of 
Buddhists,  who  are  probably  the  largest  religious  com- 
munity on  earth,  look  upon  life  as  the  greatest  misfortune, 
and  upon  death  as  a  blessed  release." 

"Ah,"  exdaimed  Agnes,  "that  is  not  peculiar  to  the 
Buddhists;  look  at  the  starved  lives  in  the  convents, 
simply  waiting  fur  death." 

"  It  is  all  very  sad,"  murmured  Dora  ;  "  and  the  world 


T96  THE  MILLS   OF  THE   GODS. 

seems  so  big,  and  so  full  of  work  to  do ;  and  pleasant 
work,  too." 

"  That  is  quite  true,"  assented  Buchanan;  "  there  is  no 
excuse  for  idle  hands  in  this  vast  work-room,  and  still 
there  is  no  art  so  highly  cultivated  as  that  of  killing 
time  without  labors 

"Is  it  not  Auerbach  who  says  that  'leisure  is  diviner 
than  labor,  and  the  gods  leave  drudgery  to  mortals'  ?"  asked 
Agnes. 

"Yes,"  answered  Buchanan,  "you  have  some  very 
lazy  dreamers  in  the  fatherland  ;  but  their  dreams  are 
more  effective  than  our  steam-engines  sometimes." 

"Thanks"  (with  a  mocking  bow)  "for  qualifying 
that  first  mild  slander.  Have  not  the  Rhinelanders 
proved  lately  that  they  can  do  sojnething  more  than  smoke 
and  dream  .?' ' 

"Ah,  yes,  Frdulein,^''  laughed  Dora.  "You  can  afford 
to  be  magnanimous  and  overlook  home-thrusts  now  ;  you 
think,  alas,  that  the  poor  French  people  could  not  see 
through  your  dense  pipe-smoke  the  clinched  fist  which 
has  struck  them  to  the  earth." 

"Don't  grow  melancholy  about  the  result  of  their 
short-sightedness,  petite  Anicricaine,^^  retorted  Agnes. 
"You  know  one  of  your  favorites.  La  Rochefoucauld, 
says,  '  We  all  of  us  have  sufficient  fortitude  to  bear  the 
misfortunes  of  others.'  " 

"  Pardon  me,"  cried  Buchanan  ;  "  are  you  not  mistaken 
in  attributing  that  cynical  sentiment  to  La  Rochefou- 
cauld ?  I  have  no  doubt  he  thought  it,  but  it  is  our 
Swift  who  says,  '  I  never  knew  a  man  who  could  not  bear 
the  misfortunes  of  others  with  the  most  Christian  resig- 
nation.' " 

"I  do  not  know,"  began  Agnes,  doubtfully;  "I  am 
almost  certain  I  have  quoted  correctly." 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  197 

"You  have,"  pronounced  Dora,  emphatically.  "  I  have 
often  read  that  passage  in  La  Rochefoucauld,  and  I  have 
seen  it  also  in  Dean  Swift's  works  ;  and,"  she  hesitated  a 
moment,  as  if  trying  to  recall  something,  "is  it  not  Shak- 
speare  who  says,  '  Every  man  can  master  a  grief  but  he 
that  has  it'  ?  which  is  the  same  sentiment  in  another 
dress," 

"And  who  shall  deny,  after  this,"  cried  Buchanan, 
"  that  a  literary  kleptomania  existed  even  among  the 
greatest  minds?  There  must  have  been  dishonesty  some- 
where; who  was  the  thief?" 

"  That  is  a  question,"  laughed  Dora,  "for  graver  heads 
than  ours.  I  should  not  like  to  accuse  Shakspeare  of 
petty  larceny." 

They  all  laughed  again  at  this,  and  felt  rebuked  imme- 
diately, as  a  gentle  knock  sounded  on  the  door-panel. 
"  Come  in,"  was  answered  by  Sceur  Therese,  who  begged 
Agnes  to  return  to  her  post,  as  ChirHrgicn  Sauter  had 
called  for  her,  in  the  amputation-room. 

Buchanan,  handing  her  the  last  remaining  glass  of  wine, 
begged  her  to  be  seated,  and  little  Marian  pressed  upon 
her  acceptance  some  chocolate. 

Agnes  had  returned  to  the  bedside  of  poor  Ogilvie, 
whose  pale,  pinched  features  lighted  up  with  a  faint  smile 
of  welcome  as  she  drew  near. 

"Shall  I  see  you  again  to-night?"  asked  Buchanan,  as 
he  lingered  a  moment  after  Madame  de  Bergeret  had  gone 
to  her  i)ainful  task,  of  Dora,  who  was  busy  removing  the 
traces  of  their  late  meal  before  retiring  to  her  little 
room  across  the  way,  for  it  was  an  off-night  of  her  duty 
at  the  hospital. 

"  No,"  answered  Dora,  with  that  hesitating,  tremulous 
intonation  which  makes  tio  more  affirmative  than  yes. 
"We  are  going  home  soon,  Agnes  and  I,  ami  baby.      I 

17* 


198  THE  MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 

slept  last  night,  but  Agnes  has  not  been  in  bed  for  two 
whole  nights." 

"I  am  glad,"  he  said  (he  looked  rather  sorry).  "I 
will  watch  Dick  to-night,  and,  after  I  have  just  looked  at 
him  for  a  moment,  I  will  come  and  take  you  and  Agnes 
home.     Shall  you  be  ready  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Dora  answered,  gladly;  she  dreaded 
above  everything  going  into  those  dark,  soldier-sprinkled 
streets.  Indeed,  since  her  father's  death  she  had  never 
been  allowed  to  enter  them  without  Ronald's  protection 
after  dusk.  Ogilvie  had  dropped  into  the  slumber  of 
exhaustion  when  Ronald  appeared  behind  the  screen. 
How  changed  he  looked, — the  ruddy  complexion  so  pal- 
lid, the  genial  blue  eyes  so  dim  and  hollow,  the  muscular 
frame  helpless  as  an  infant !  And  twelve  hours  had  done 
this ;  in  such  frail  caskets  are  our  souls  enshrined. 

Ronald  observed  him  anxiously  and  critically  for  a 
moment,  and  then  beckoning  Agnes  to  follow  him,  stepped 
outside,  and  said,  in  that  gentle,  yet  firm  tone  which  no 
one  ever  dreamed  of  disputing,  "  I  shall  send  one  of  the 
good  Sisters  of  the  inner  ward  here  immediately,  to  take 
your  place  until  I  can  see  you  and  Dora  safely  home.  I 
will  watch  Dick  myself,  to-night." 

"But,"  she  could  not  help  remonstrating,  "you  are 
utterly  worn  out;  you  look  almost  as  badly  as  he  does; 
have  you  no  mercy  on  yourself?" 

He  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  "  I  am  not  to  be  sub- 
dued by  such  a  trifle  as  the  loss  of  a  night's  rest.  I  will 
expect  to  see  you  in  the  little  cabinet  in  ten  minutes." 
And  he  went  away  in  search  of  a  substitute  until  his 
return. 

That  night,  Dora  wept  sorely  on  Agnes's  bosom  after 
the  light  was  put  out,  and  the  three  helpless  ones  were 
curled  up  in  their  warm  nest  together. 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  199 

"Why  do  you  weep,  my  darling?"  quoth  gentle  Agnes, 
caressing,  with  a  pitying  tenderness  (for  the  quick,  sym- 
pathetic nature  had  already  divined  the  cause  of  those 
tears),  the  bowed  head  of  her  friend.  "What  is  your 
trouble  now?" 

"  My  trouble,  oh,  Agnes,  is  that  I  have  been  so  happy 
to-day, — so  happy  ! — and  the  grass  is  not  green  on  my 
dear  father's  grave."    And  she  sobbed  afresh. 

"Yes,  dear,"  replied  Agnes,  "that  is  true;  but,  Dora, 
do  you  not  feel  sure  that  your  father  has  smiled  before 
to-day,  in  heaven?     Wherefore  should  you  grieve?" 

Dora  kissed  her  gratefully,  and  they  slept. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

"  Citizens  : 

"  The  enemy  has  just  inflicted  on  Paris  the  most  cruel 
insult  that  she  has  yet  had  to  endure  in  this  accursed  war ; 
the  too-heavy  punishment  of  the  errors  and  weaknesses 
of  a  great  people. 

"Paris,  the  impregnable,  vanquished  by  famine,  is  no 
longer  able  to  hold  in  abeyance  the  German  hordes. 
On  the  2Sth  January,  the  capital  succumbed,  her  forts 
surrendered  to  the  enemy!  The  city  still  remains  intact, 
wresting,  as  it  were,  by  her  own  power  and  moral  grand- 
eur, a  last  homage  from  barbarity  ! 

"But,  in  falling,  Paris  leaves  us  the  glorious  legacy  of 
her  heroic  sacrifices.  During  five  months  of  i)rivation 
and  suffering  she  has  given  to  France  the  time  to  collect 
hericif,  to  call  her  children  together,  to  provide  arms,  to 


200  THE  MILLS    OL'   7 LIE    GODS. 

compose  armies.  .  .  .  Thanks  to  Paris  !  we  hold  in  our 
hands,  if  we  are  but  resolute  and  patriotic,  all  that  is 
needed  to  revenge,  and  set  ourselves  once  more  free  ! 

"But  .  .  .  without  our  knowledge,  without  either 
warning  or  consultation,  an  armistice,  the  culpable  weak- 
ness of  which  was  known  to  us  too  late,  has  been  signed, 
thereby  delivering  into  the  hands  of  the  Prussians  the 
departments  occupied  by  our  soldiers.   .   .   . 

"  Prussia  relies  upon  the  armistice  to  enervate  and 
dissolve  our  armies,  and  hopes  that  the  Assembly,  .  .  . 
under  the  impression  of  the  terrible  fall  of  Paris,  will  be 
ready  to  submit  to  a  shameful  peace,   .   .  . 

"  Frenchmen  : 

"Remember  that  our  fathers  left  us  France, — whole 
and  indivisible  ;   let  us  not  be  traitors  to  our  history.   .   .   . 

"  Who,  then,  will  sign  the  armistice  ?  Not  you,  legiti- 
mists, who  fought  under  the  flag  of  the  Republic,  .  .  . 
nor  you,  sons  of  the  bourgeois  of  1 7S9  ;  .  •  .  nor  you, 
workmen  of  the  towns,  whose  intelligence  and  generous 
patriotism  represent  France  in  all  her  strength  and  grand- 
eur; .  .  .  nor  you,  tillers  of  the  soil,  who  never  have 
spared  your  blood  in  the  defense  of  the  revolution.  .  .  . 
No  !  Not  one  Frenchman  will  be  found  to  sign  this  in- 
famous act.  The  enemy's  attempt  to  mutilate  France  will  be 
frustrated,  for,  animated  with  the  same  love  for  the  mother- 
country,  and  bearing  our  reverses  with  fortitude,  we  shall 
become  strong  once  more  and  drive  out  the  foreign 
legions !   .   .   . 

"  To  arms  !" 

This  stirring  manifesto  from  the  eloquent  Gambetta, 
like  the  hot  breath  from  the  cannon's  mo  ith,  swci)t  the 
land  witli  increasing  desolation.  The  National  Guard 
had  obtained  permission  to  retain  their  arms  from  Bis- 
mark, — a  concession  perhaps  not  so  magnanimous  as  it 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS.  20 1 

looked  at  the  time, — afterwards  a  frightful  calamity  ; — it 
may  be,  not  entirely  unforeseen  by  that  astute  diplomatist. 
May  God  forgive  him  ! 

From  the  issuing  of  Gambetta's  war-cry,  succeeded  by 
more  pacific  proclamations  from  the  few  lovers  of  order 
who  remained  in  this  bedlam,  Paris  had  been  in  a  constant 
ferment.  Secret  societies  threw  their  death- fraught  shells 
from  the  ambush  of  incognito;  men  suspected  of  treachery, 
or  of  being  Prussians  in  disguise,  were  dragged  to  the 
Seine  and  drowned  without  mercy  ;  sometimes  as  many  as 
twenty  or  thirty  thousand  persons  were  assembled  on  the 
Place  de  la  Bastille;  (fortunately,  the  police  had  seized 
some  time  previously  ten  thousand  Orsini  bombs,  and 
hundreds  of  others  charged  with  fulminating  mercury). 
There  seemed  to  be  but  one  spirit  among  this  indomitable 
people, — the  spirit  of  defiance  ! 

At  last,  on  the  ist  of  March,  the  enemy  fulfilled  the 
threat  which  had  so  excited  the  derision  of  the  French, 
and  which  had  been  their  triumphant  cry  throughout  the 
war,  "To  Paris!"  and  kindled  their  bivouac-fires  in  the 
beautiful  Champs-Elys6es. 

Alas  !  what  a  sad  contrast  to  the  first  opening  spring 
day  of  other  years  !  The  leaves  of  the  trees  refused  to 
come  forth,  and  the  buds  of  the  flowers  to  blossom,  from 
very  shame  ! 

During  the  three  pitiful  days  of  the  unwelcome  foreigners' 
visit,  the  city  mourned  outwardly,  as  well  as  in  the  bitter 
hearts  of  its  people.  The  Bourse,  the  shops,  the  cafes 
were  closed  ;  the  eight  gigantic  figures  on  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde,  representing  the  towns  o  "  France,  were  veiled 
in  black  crape;  from  the  windows  hung  black  flags,  or 
the  national  flag  draped  with  crape;  few  women  stirre<l 
without,  and  those  wore  complete  mourning.  Ah,  it  was 
all  as  sad  as  it  could  be  ! 
I* 


202  THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

The  hospitals  were  crowded  with  the  wounded  and  the 
dying  ;  the  labors  of  our  three  friends  unremitting. 

Dick  Ogilvie,  entirely  recovered  from  his  wound,  had 
rejoined  his  regiment,  but  carried  with  him  that  which 
disabled  him  for  all  his  future  life  from  rejoicing  in  that 
ir^Q  gaiete  de  cceur,  which  had  never  been  under  the  influ- 
ence of  any  more  serious  passion  than  a  momentary  flirta- 
tion would  call  for. 

A  week  after  his  accident  he  had  pulled  Buchanan's  face 
down  to  his  pillow  with  feeble  hands,  while  he  whispered, 
"Who  is  this  angel  you  have  set  to  watch  over  me, 
Ronald  ?  She  has  the  sweetest  face  and  the  softest  hands 
I  ever  felt." 

"Well !"  exclaimed  Buchanan,  "for  a  half-dead  man, 
you  do  show  a  surprising  amount  of  energy  in  your  in- 
vestigations ;  it's  the  best  symptom  I  have  observed  yet. 
She  is  a  dear,  good  little  girl  as  ever  lived,  half  English, 
and  with  good  blood  in  her  veins,  I  fancy.  None  of  your 
larks  with  her,  Dick,  my  boy." 

"You  mistake  me  utterly,"  returned  Ogilvie.  "I 
meant  no  disrespect  to  her,  bless  her  !  But  not  being 
used  much  to  women  folks  of  her  description,  about  me 
(I  scarcely  remember  ever  hearing  a  sweeter  voice  than 
hers),  I  appreciate  the  novelty,  don't  you  know?  Where 
is  she  now,  I  wonder?  I  do  wish  you  would  not  drive 
her  away,  Ronald,"  he  somewhat  peevishly  concluded. 
Into  such  littleness  does  the  mas.er-weakness  of  our  hearts 
betray  even  the  sweetest  tempers  among  us. 

Agnes  was  just  outside,  preparing  a  bowl  of  broth  for 
the  refreshment  of  No.  25  during  the  night.  She  turned 
quickly  at  the  sound  of  Ronald's  voice, — 

"Sister  Agnes,  will  you  just  turn  this  poor  fellow's 
pillow  for  him,  and  give  him  a  sup  of  that  bouillo7i? 
Meanwhile,  I  will  visit  my  other  patients," 


THE   MILLS    OF   7 LIE    GODS. 


203 


No.  25  was  smiling  broadly  when  Agnes  reappeared  at 
his  side  armed  with  soup-bowl  and  napkin,  but  pretended 
to  be  still  too  weak  to  hold  the  spoon  himself.  Gravely 
she  pinned  the  napkin  about  him,  and  fed  him  as  she 
would  have  done  a  child.  He  delayed  the  consumption 
of  the  rather  tasteless  bouillon  as  long  as  he  decently 
could,  and  took  more  than  was  good  for  him,  devour- 
ing, at  the  same  time,  with  his  eyes  the  sweet  face  of  the 
unsuspecting  girl,  whose  thoughts,  meanwhile,  had  strayed 
to  Dora  and  sleepy  Marian,  who  were  waiting  for  her  in 
the  corridor. 

At  length  Ronald  returned  and  released  her,  and,  with 
a  hastv  touch  or  two  to  the  arrangement  of  a  little  table 
containing  his  tisatie,  etc.,  and  a  "good-night,"  without 
a  glance  in  Dick's  direction,  she  sped  away  to  join  Dora. 

"  She  might  have  said  good-night  to  a  fellow  decently," 
muttered  Ogilvie,  stung  by  her  eagerness  to  escape,  and 
turned  a  moody  face  to  the  wall,  where  he  nursed  his 
wrath  to  keei)  it  warm,  until  the  sun  looked  in  upon  him. 

During  the  ensuing  weeks  of  his  enforced  idleness, 
although  he  did  not  cease  to  regret  the  unlucky  blow 
which  had  struck  his  sword  from  his  hand  at  this  interest- 
ing crisis  of  the  siege,  when  strong  arms  and  sane  heads 
were  in  demand,  Dick  Ogilvie  could  not  deny  that  he 
found  some  compensation  for  his  seclusion  in  the  intelli- 
gent companionship  of  the  Madonna-faced,  sweet-voiced 
Agnes. 

And  when  the  last  day  of  his  convalescence  came,  and 
he  was  pronounced  "whole,"  he  came  to  say  farewell  to 
his  gentle  nurse  before  returning  to  the  fierce  whirlpool 
which  hissed  and  seethed  outside;  a  spasm  seemed  to  con- 
tract his  heart,  and  he  could  only  stammer  out  a  few 
incoherent  words,  and  get  himself  away  as  quickly  as 
possible. 


204  THE  MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 

And  Agnes,  after  watching  him  go  forth,  pale  and  thin 
and  weak-looking,  to  the  imminent  peril  with  which  the 
very  air  seemed  charged  at  that  time,  went  back  to  her 
seat  beside  another  poor  fellow  who  had  come  to  grief 
(and  who  was  no  other  than  Jean  Picot,  poor  Ernestine's 
husband),  and  glanced  over  at  the  empty  white  cot  of  No. 
25  with  a  sigh  of  genuine  regret.  "  Shall  I  ever  see  him 
again?"  she  asked  herself.  "What  clear,  honest  eyes  he 
had,  and  what  a  sweet  smile  !  And  how  disputatious  he 
was ! — always  arguing  for  the  love  of  argument,  and  yet  so 
very  good-natured  about  it.  Ah  me!"  Another  sigh, 
and  then  a  smile',  at  a  folly  which  was  so  foreign  to  her 
habit  of  thought.  For  Agnes  was  a  very  little  nun  at 
heart,  and  knew  not  that  through  the  long  silent  watches 
of  the  night,  and  the  days  spent  in  tender  ministration  to 
her  patient's  suffering  requirements, — in  those  delightful 
hours  of  convalescence  which  she  passed  in  reading  from 
his  favorite  "  Ingoldsby  Legends"  (a  well-thumbed  vol- 
ume, his  inseparable  companion,  and  which  he  had,  with 
a  laudable  effort  of  generosity,  presented  to  her  as  a  token 
of  his  gratitude  before  leaving), — she  had  let  her  heart 
slip  from  her  unawares. 

And  Agnes  sighed  and  smiled,  and  sighed  again,  and 
tended  poor  Jean  Picot  with  mechanical  assiduity,  and 
resisted  not  the  temptation  to  compare  the  brown,  knotty, 
toil-hardened  paws,  which  lay  in  jjassive  weakness  outside 
the  white  bed-covering,  with  the  comely-shaped,  filbert- 
nailed,  large,  white  hands  of  her  last  patient ;  nor  did  she 
fail  to  wonder  how  there  could  be  such  vast  difference 
between  the  coarse,  black,  unkempt  crop  which  veiled  the 
low,  sunburnt  brow  of  poor  Jean,  and  the  soft,  luxuriant 
silkiness  of  the  wavy  brown  hair  she  had  brushed  with  such 
admiring  care  every  morning,  during  those  past  weeks. 

And  when  sleep  closed  the  lids  over  the  beady  black 


THE  MILLS   OF   TILE    GODS. 


20: 


6)63  of  honest  Picot,  she  drew  from  her  pocket  the  dog- 
eared "Ingoldsby,"  and  lost  herself  in  the  inimitable  hu- 
mor of  its  quaint  pages.  Scarcely  a  day  passed  that  Dick 
did  not  appear  at  the  hospital  to  report  himself  doing 
well,  as  he  explained  ;  and,  on  some  precious  occasions 
when  Ronald  was  unable  to  get  away,  he  had  the  over- 
whelming satisfaction  of  escorting  Dora  and  Agnes  to 
their  quarters  for  the  night. 

Indeed,  of  late,  since  the  capitulation  had  stirred  up  to 
boiling-point  the  city,  he  had  considered  it  necessary  to 
accompany  them  nightly,  even  when  Ronald  was  at  lib- 
erty ;  and  there  existed  a  tacit  understanding  among  the 
four  tliat,  up  to  any  reasonable  hour  in  the  evening,  they 
would  each  wait  for  the  other;  and  Agnes  had  never  been 
known  to  offer  objection  to  the  plan,  although  Ogilvie 
was  almost  invariably  the  latest  of  the  quartette,  through 
his  imperative  subjection  to  roll-call  and  muster. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

It  was  the  night  of  the  iSth  March,  when  two  women 
with  pale  faces  lined  with  that  agony  which  ages  one  in  a 
single  night, — suspense, — met  for  one  moment  behind  the 
screen  whicli  inclosed  another  dangerous  case  in  their  ward. 

Neither  dared  acknowledge  to  the  other,  scarcely  to 
themselves,  the  fear  wliich  had  drained  the  life-blood  from 
their  cheeks  and  lips,  but  in  that  momentary  meeting,  two 
cold  hands  met  and  crushed  each  other  in  a  grasp  of  pain, 
while,  "God  help  you  !"  burst  simultaneously  from  each 
pitying  heart. 

iS 


2o6  THE  MILLS   OF   THE   GODS. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  of  that  fearful  day  of  horrors 
which  saw  the  assassination  of  General  Le  Comte  and 
poor  old  Clement  Thomas. 

Since  early  morning  the  cry  of  the  Communists  had 
been  echoing  throughout  the  streets;  Montmartre  had  been 
occupied  by  some  of  the  National  Guards,  who  had  taken 
forcible  possession  of  the  cannon  stationed  there;  skir- 
mishes had  been  frequent  throughout  the  city;  drunken- 
ness abounded  among  the  demoralized  soldiers;  shouts, 
menaces,  bullets,  filled  the  air. 

In  the  afternoon,  the  two  courageous  generals  who  paid 
so  dearly  for  their  efforts  to  restore  order  were  conducted 
by  a  hundred  of  the  Nationals,  supported  by  the  hooting 
rabble,  to  the  top  of  the  hill  at  Montmartre,  and  after  a 
mock- trial,  or  no  trial  at  all,  were  shot. 

The  civilized  world  blushed  at  the  manner  of  their 
death,  and  their  blood  cried  not  to  Heaven  in  vain.  Is 
not  civil  war  with  its  ghastly  train  of  evils  looming  in  the 
distance? 

This  evening  the  Hotel  de  Ville  is  filled  by  the  National 
Guard  (the  government  has  fled  to  Versailles),  and  the 
Commune  is  proclaimed  ! 

Liberte!  Egalite!  Fraternite!  Under  these  three 
banners,  blood  is  to  flow  again  ! 

In  vain  had  those  who  sought  to  restore  order  amid 
this  chaos,  placarded  their  proclamations  and  paraded  the 
streets,  sometimes  numbering  among  their  ranks  as  many 
as  three  thousand  men,  cheered  by  women  from  the 
windows  as  they  passed,  bearing  on  their  flags  the  pacific 
sentence,  "Meeting  of  the  friends  of  order!"  always 
supplemented  by  the  gopular  "  Vive  la  Republiquc  T' 

In  vain  !  The  last  attempt  to  organize  a  meeting  on 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix  was  frustrated  by  the  madmen,  who 
confronted  these  tliree  or  four  thousand  unarmed  citizens 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


207 


by  a  body  of  the  National  Guard,  armed  to  tlie  teeth, 
under  orders  from  the  Central  Committee. 

A  pistol-shot,  the  usual  signal  (fired  by  whom?  God 
knows),  was  followed  by  a  volley  of  musketry  poured  out 
upon  the  defenseless  crowd,  who  fled  sli licking  with 
horror,  leaving  killed  and  wounded  behind  them. 

The  Hotel  de  Ville,  where  the  members  of  tlie  Central 
Committee  are  sitting,  is  formidably  defended;  the  Place 
Vendome  is  thronged  with  insurgents,  piles  of  stones  here 
and  there  through  the  streets  suggest  the  barricade ;  on 
the  Place  de  la  Bourse  are  glittering  piles  of  bayonets, 
and  crowds  of  people  congregated,  gesticulating  fiercely. 

Lines  of  National  Guards  and  Mobiles  defend  the 
entrance  to  the  Rue  Vivienne ;  the  Belleville  fire-eaters 
drag  their  cannon  through  the  streets,  yelling  defiantly ; 
more  than  ten  thousand  men  well-armed,  ready  for  the 
spark  which  shall  ignite  their  gunpowder,  fill  every  quarter 
night  and  day ;  cries,  groans,  and  curses,  and  the  hideous 
sounds  of  drunken  revelry,  resound  throughout  the  doomed 
city, — and  the  Commune  is  born  ! 

Three  days  later,  night  again, — a  beautiful  moon-flooded 
night  ;  an  unnatural  stillness,  an  ominous  C|uiet,  brooding 
over  the  palpitating  city,  asleep  on  the  mouth  of  a  volcano  ! 

Every  hour  the  muffled  sound  of  many  feet  is  heard 
passing  l)y  :  it  is  the  Mobile  patrol  making  its  rounds; 
now  and  then  the  butt-end  of  a  musket  strikes  the  pave- 
ment, or  a  cannon  heavily  rolls  by  ;  no  other  sounds  are 
heard.  It  is  the  pause  when  the  wind  takes  breath  before 
the  storm  breaks  into  fury;  il  is  the  calm,  sultry  liour 
before  the  volcano  bursts  into  eruption. 

The  new-made  widows  and  the  childless  mothers  dry 
their  tears  and  hush  their  sobs,  to  listen  to  the  first  rumble 
which  will  warn  them  that  the  hour  of  ruin  has  struck. 


2o8  THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

The  morning  is  breaking;  all  the  east  is  waking  up  in  a 
glory  of  rosy  flushes.  After  the  golden  serenity  of  the 
night,  the  morning  dawns  full  of  a  delicious  balm,  breath- 
ing forth  the  very  spirit  of  peace  and  good  will  towards 
men. 

But  the  eyes  of  these  poor  Sodomites  are  blinded  ; 
they  saw  nothing  but  the  glitter  of  the  sunrise  on  their 
bayonets.     Who  shall  see  another  day  dawn  ? 

And  this  will  be  the  fifth  day  since  either  Ronald 
Buchanan  or  Dick  Ogilvie  have  been  able  to  visit  for  a 
moment  the  ambulance  hospital. 

Dick,  having  been  refused  a  half-hour's  leave,  in  the 
exigency  of  an  excitement  which  threatened  every  moment 
to  become  a  revolution,  had  confided  sundry  billets  to 
Z-gatJiin,  who  for  a  slight  consideration  had  promised  to 
deliver  them  faithfully,  and  who,  being  of  that  low  order 
of  urchins  who  get  more  kicks  than  half-pence,  with  a 
conscience  long  ago  seared  by  the  hot  brand  of  cruelty, 
kept  the  consideration  and  dropped  the  notes  in  the 
sewer. 

Unluckily,  Buchanan,  being  detained  over-night  by  a 
press  of  work,  had  had  the  audacity  to  communicate 
the  fact  to  Dora,  with  some  directions  in  regard  to  the 
patients  belonging  to  his  ward,  and  to  conclude  with  a 
quotation  in  German,  and  "  ScJdiifcn  sic  7aohl ?'^ 

He  was  writing  hastily  in  a  ca/c  which  he  did  not  usually 
frequent, — a  nest  of  bonnets-rouges.  When  he  had  finished, 
he  beckoned  ^  gar^on,  and,  giving  him  some  silver,  urged 

him  to  fly  to  the  hospital  on  the  Rue at  once.     The 

man  promised  to  do  so,  and  Buchanan  went  away. 

Scarcely  had  he  turned  liis  back  than  murmurs  arose 
among  the  denizens  of  the  cafe,  who  were  busy  imbibing 
the  columns  of  the  Vengetir,  the  Cri  du  Peuple,  and  the  vile 
destroyer,  absinthe. 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  209 

"Who  is  he?  the  aristocrat  !  What  does  he  do  here 
without  a  carbine  ?  He  is  a  spy  !  A  Prussian  !  Ah,  sacre 
viille  tonnerres  !     Give  us  that  letter,"  etc. 

The  terrified  gar(on  yielded  without  remonstrance,  and, 
on  opening  it,  the  execrations  burst  forth  afresh. 

"Ah,  did  I  not  tell  you  so?  Look  at  this!  and  he 
dares  to  come  among  us,  the  cochon  (V Allcmatid !  Here 
is  proof;   this  is  German  ! — and  this,  and  this  !" 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  a  great,  red-haired  giant,  in  a  uni- 
form of  the  National  Guard  too  small  for  him,  out  of 
which  seemed  to  overflow  his  great  bony  wrists  and  ankles, 
his  bull-dog  neck,  and  great  red  beard. 

"  After  him  !"  he  shouted.  "  Stop  him  !  We  want  no 
letter-writers  among  us !  No  German  dog  shall  rest  in 
Paris  .'" 

"Follow  him!  Stop  him!"  cried  they  all,  dashing 
down  the  street.  In  a  moment  they  came  in  sight  of  him, 
and  he,  hearing  their  fierce  cries  and  wondering  what  it 
all  meant,  turned  calmly  around  and  waited  until  they 
came  up  to  him.  He  did  not  look  much  surprised,  but  a 
good  deal  contemptuous,  as  they  Laid  violent  hands  on 
him;  he  only  said,  in  excellent  French,  as  he  shook  them 
off  as  a  great  Newfoundland  would  a  couple  of  curs,  "  It 
don't  require  a  dozen  men  to  arrest  one.  What  is  my 
crime  ?" 

"  A  la  lanierne  /"  returned  the  fanatics.  "  To  the  Seine 
with  the  (log  of  a  German  !" 

"But  I  am  not  German  !"  In  vain  Buchanan  repeated 
this  assertion.  Through  the  increasing  darkness  of  the 
streets  he  was  hustled  on, — on  he  knew  not  whither, — 
encircled  by  a  mob  which  grew  momentarily  larger  and 
stronger.  The  red-haired  giant  held  him  firmly  by  the 
shoulder  :  on  his  otlier  side  walked  a  man  with  a  loaded 
pistol.     Buchanan  ceased  to  struggle  or  remonstrate;  he 

iS* 


2IO  THE   MILLS   OF  TLLE    GODS. 

walked  silently,  proudly,  his  head  up.  They  were  ap- 
proaching the  Seine;  a  roar  of  delight  arose  from  the 
madmen  around  him  as  the  glimmer  of  the  water  shone  in 
the  light  of  the  rising  moon.  They  pressed  more  closely 
about  him  ;  although  this  was  not  an  uncommon  occur- 
ence— this  drowning  of  suspected  men, — it  had  lost  none 
of  its  zest  yet,  and  they  feared  a  surprise.  One  came  ! 
As  they  passed  a  corner  shop,  brightly  lighted,  one  of  the 
escort  made  a  sudden  movement  of  astonishment,  and 
ejaculated,  catching  firmly  the  right  arm  of  the  giant  red- 
beard,  "  Simon,  we  are  wrong  !  this  man  is  English  !  I 
know  him  !"  He  tore  back  the  cape  of  his  top-coat  and 
showed  the  cross  of  Geneva  on  his  sleeve.  "  I  answer  for 
him  !     Pierre  !  Simon  !  take  your  hands  off  this  man  !" 

But  Simon  replied,  with  a  hoarse  laugh  and  an  oath, 
"  What  does  he  here  with  a  cross  on  his  arm  in  place  of 
a  carbine  in  his  hand  ?  What  does  your  Englishman  write 
German  for?     To  the  Seine  with  him  !" 

"Not  so  !"  shouted  Jacques  Toquelet,  in  a  voice  of 
thunder.  "You  take  him  to  the  Seine  over  my  dead 
body  !  He  is  a  surgeon,  I  tell  you;  he  has  helped  many 
of  our  poor  fellows  back  to  life ;  he  is  a  good  man  and  a 
brave  one  !  He  shall  not  die  !  Jacques  Toquelet  has  sworn 
it!" 

His  voice,  his  earnestness,  carried  conviction  even  to 
these  half-maddened  animals.  There  were  murmurs,  and 
the  man  on  the  other  side  put  up  his  pistol  and  took  his 
hand  off  Buchanan's  arm. 

A  Mobile,  just  behind  him,  proposed  that  he  should  be 
confined  in  the  guard-house  imtil  further  investigation 
should  be  made, — accepted  by  a  majority.  In  the  guard- 
house he  spent  the  night,  and  they — forgot  him.  The 
guard  supplied  him  his  rations  during  those  five  wretched 
days  and  nights,  and  then,  after  repeated  efforts,  a  com- 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  211 

munication  reached  the  English  embassy,  and  he  was  set 
free. 

How  the  flower  of  love  expanded  into  perfection  during 
those  hours  of  anguish  and  suspense  in  Ronald's  heart, 
and  in  poor  Dora's,  may  be  told  by  those  who  have  loved 
and  suffered. 

For  forty-eight  hours  Dick  Ogilvie  and  his  men  have 
not  slept,  and,  weary  but  resolved,  have  remained  on  duty 
in  the  Place  de  la  Bourse,  to  which  now,  however,  a  fresh 
detachment  have  arrived,  and  these  poor  fellows  will  be 
enabled,  after  five  days  of  almost  continuous  duty,  to  get 
a  little  rest. 

But  Dick  prefers  to  refresh  himself  in  his  own  way;  he 
makes  a  fresh  toilette,  after  a  plunge  in  the  Seine,  and 
takes  a  hasty  cup  of  coffee. 

At  six  o'clock  he  might  be  seen  walking  slowly  along 
the  quiet  Rue  de  Valois  with  a  slight  little  figure  hanging 
on  Iws  arm,  and  two  lovely  blue  eyes  raised  to  his  with 
more  than  a  suspicion  of  tears  in  their  depths. 

Both  Agnes's  little  hands  were  clasped  on  the  sleeve  of 
her  companion,  and  there  was  a  little  tremble  in  her  voice 
as  she  said,  "You  will  never, — never  do  this  again  ?  You 
cannot  think  how  anxious  Dora  and  I  have  been  !" 

"You?"  he  said,  suddenly  stopping  and  turning  a  little 
towards  her.  "  Oh,  my  darling,  I  can  scarcely  realize  the 
fact  that  you  did  care  so  much.  And  to  think  that  that 
brown-faced  imp  never  brought  you  a  single  line  from  me  ! 
Did  you  think  I  was  dead,  little  one?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  all  the  fears  I  had  ;  I  was  very 
wretched  ;  but  there  were  few  hearts  in  Paris  that  were 
not  nearly  broken  during  these  last  days.  Why  should  I 
complain?" 

"Oh,  Agnes,"  Dick  burst  forth  suddenly,  "this  is,  in 


212  THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

truth,  no  time  for  love-making  or  fine  speeches,  but  if 
death  should  be  in  store  for  me  in  the  great  struggle  which 
is  inevitable  now,  and  drawing  very  near,  I  think  I  would 
die  happier  if  I  could  feel  that  you  would  love  and  weep 
for  me." 

This  was  a  long  speech  for  Dick,  and  not  in  his  line  at 
all ;  but  when  is  a  man  consistent  to  his  prejudices  after 
he  has  taken  that  leap  in  the  dark, — fallen  in  love? 

All  the  white  purity  of  Agnes's  face  and  neck  crimsoned 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  at  the  stirring  of  a  new-born 
delight,  as  she  said,  timidly,  "You  will  not  expose  your- 
self unnecessarily,  will  you  ?  Ah,  have  pity  upon  those 
who  sit  at  home  and  wait  for  your  return  ;  their  pain  is 
deeper  than  any  pang  a  bullet  can  bring  to  you  !"  There 
was  a  ring  of  passion  in  her  voice  which  betrayed  how 
great  had  been  her  loving  anxiety  for  him.  He  bent  his 
head  suddenly,  and  kissed  the  little  hands  upon  his  arm. 

It  was  close  upon  ten  o'clock  when  they  parted  inside 
the  outer  door  of  the  hospital ;  in  Agnes's  liand  was  a 
tiny  bunch  of  early  field-flowers,  bouglit  from  a  blind  old 
woman,  Dick's  first  love-offering;  in  her  lace  was  the  joy 
and  freshness  of  the  spring. 

Ogilvie  looked  a  little  graver  than  usual,  as  he  prom- 
ised, come  what  might,  to  see  her  once  in  every  twenty- 
four  hours  that  he  lived  ;  and  then,  as  the  flush  suddenly 
faded  from  her  face,  the  meaning  of  those  words  flashing 
over  her,  and  she  broke  down  for  a  moment  in  hysterical 
weeping,  so  unusual  to  her  calm,  tranquil  nature,  he  folded 
her  in  his  arms  and  pressed  kiss  after  kiss  6n  her  bonnie 
brown  liair,  her  tender  hands,  her  snow-wliite  eyelids, 
and,  with  a  "  God  bless  you,  my  own  darling  !"  he  tore 
himself  away. 

From  that  moment  Agnes's  peace  was  gone ;  through 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  213 

all  the  dreadful  days  and  nights  and  weeks  of  terror  and 
despair  through  which  Paris  now  wrestled  for  its  life, 
Agnes  shared  the  sorrow  of  the  wife,  the  mother,  and  the 
sister  of  the  soldier,  whose  life  was  menaced  hourly  in  the 
fratricidal  frenzy  of  their  own  people. 

As  Agnes  hung  up  her  bonnet  and  cloak  in  the  armoire 
of  the  corridor,  she  became  conscious  that  Dora  was  ap- 
proaching her  from  the  door  of  their  ward,  with  a  quick, 
eager  step.  But,  for  the  first  time,  she  shunned  those 
loving  eyes;  how  could  she  explain  these  traces  of  tears, 
her  long  absence  from  her  duties  ?  how  breathe  the  story 
which  was  so  new  yet  to  herself? 

But  Dora  observed  nothing ;  she  came  quite  close,  and 
asked,  in  a  rapid  whisper,  "  Have  you  heard  where  he  is, 
Agnes? — Mr.  Buchanan,  I  mean, — why  he  has  not  been 
here  all  these  dreary  days  and  nights  ?  Oh,  tell  me  ;  you 
have  seen  Mr.  Ogilvie  ;  what  does  he  say?"  She  stopped, 
breathless,  ami  wrung  her  hands  together.  Agnes's  heart 
ached. 

"No,  Dora,  I  have  heard  nothing.  Mr.  Ogilvie" — 
her  face  flushed  slightly  as  she  named  him — "  has  not 
seen  or  heard  from  him  since  they  walked  home  with 
us  that  last  evening." 

A  low  moan  broke  from  Dora's  lips,  and  she  grew  even 
whiter  than  be/ore.  "Agnes,"  she  said,  solemnly,  "I 
have  killed  him, — /who  would  give  my  heart's  blood  to 
save  him  from  harm,"  she  went  on,  wildly, — "that  night 
I  sent  him  away  from  me  wiih  a  cold,  bitter  falsehood. 
I  told  him  not  to  come  near  me  any  more.  Oh,  my  God  ! 
Agnes,  he  has  only  done  what  I  commanded.  He  has 
exposed  himself  to  danger,  and  he  is  dead,  dead,  dead  !" 
She  sank  down  on  the  wooden  bench  which  stood  in  the 
window  of  the  corridor,  and  trembled  from  head  to  foot 
as  with  an  ague. 


214 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE   GODS. 


Agnes  was  almost  stunned  by  surprise,  and  pity  of  an 
anguish  whose  bitterness  she  had  never  before  known. 
She  bent  over  the  bowed  figure  of  her  friend,  but  only 
kisses  and  tender  caresses  seemed  possible  to  her  over- 
full heart  and  strained  nerves.  A  silent  prayer  for  help, 
and  at  last  she  found  strength  to  say,  "  Dora,  do  not  moan 
so,  darling  ;  be  brave.  He  may  come  in  at  any  moment, 
and  you  would  not  care  for  him  to  see  you  thus.  He 
has  been  detained — you  know  his  good  heart — by  some 
suffering  wretch  whose  pain  he  alone  could  relieve. 
Surely,  you  would  not  wish  to  deprive  any  of  these  tor- 
tured ones  of  his  skill?" 

"Oh,  no,  no  !"  sobbed  Dora,  to  whom  tears,  blessed 
tears,  had  come  at  last ;  "  but,  Agnes,  it  is  all  my  fault,  my 
sin,  my  sin  !  I  have  let  him  love  me,  even  after  I  saw 
that  he  cared  for  me  too  much.  I  was  so  happy,  I  could 
not  thrust  his  love  away ;  and,  oh,  if  he  knew, — if  he 
knew  how  vile  and  weak  and  wicked  I  have  been  !  how 
cowardly  !   he  would  despise  me." 

"Oh,  no,  Dora;  think  what  you  are  saying;  he  could 
never  despise  you,  my  pure  pearl,  my  true,  noble-hearted 
Dora  !" 

"Agnes,  you  are  killing  me!  I  tell  you,  you  cannot 
guess  how  wicked  I  have  been,  how  I  have  sinned.  I  am 
not  worthy  that  your  pure  arms  should  touch  me,  or  that 
my  Marian  should  rest  upon  my  heart !" 

"  Hush,  Dora  !  hush  !  you  are  too  e.xcited  now  to  rea- 
son calmly.  Come  with  me  and  lie  down  in  the  little 
cabinet  ior  half  an  hour.  Should  he  come,  I  will  bring 
him  to  you.     Will  you,  dear  ?" 

"  No,  no,  he  will  never  come  again  ;  and  if  he  did, 
Agnes,," — she  raised  her  agonized  face  and  spoke  quite 
quietly  now, — "you  must  not  bring  him  to  me.  I  will 
never  willingly  see  his  face  again."    She  broke  out  afresh 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GOES.  215 

into  bitter  weeping :  "  I  have  deceived  him  and  you,  and 
all  who  have  been  so  good  to  me  ;  I  am  not  what  you 
think  me,  Agnes."  She  buried  her  head  in  her  arms 
resting  on  the  window-sill,  and  Agnes  tenderly  smoothed 
the  ruffled  hair,  and  murmured, — 

"No  matter  who  or  what  you  are,  Dora,  I  love  you, 
and  shall  love  you  all  my  life ;  everybody  loves  you, 
darling." 

At  this  moment  the  outer  door  opened,  and  a  French 
surgeon,  followed  by  Buchanan,  looking  pale  and  de- 
pressed, entered  the  corridor.  He  caught  sight  of  Agnes 
at  once,  and  with  an  almost  imperceptible  motion  of  her 
head,  she  summoned  liini  to  her  side.  Then,  with  up- 
lifted finger  to  enjoin  silence,  she  drew  herself  away  and 
left  him  standing  in  her  place,  close  to  Dora,  who  still 
wept  bitterly. 

Ronald  stood  silently,  looking  down  at  the  frail  figure 
of  the  woman  he  loved  with  all  the  intensity  of  a  first  and 
last  passion  of  a  lifetime,  and  a  great  hunger  came  into  his 
heart  the  while.  At  last  Dora  miumured,  from  the  shel- 
ter of  her  tear-drenched  arms,  "  But,  Agnes,  if  he  had 
been  detained,  and  not  hurt  or  angry,  he  would  have  sent 
a  messenger,  or ' ' 

What  is  this?  Has  she  died,  and  is  she  at  last  in  the 
haven  of  peace  and  rest  with  her  dead  mother's  arms 
about  her?  Has  her  suffering,  maimed  life  cast  off  its 
earthly  shell,  and  is  her  soul  free  ? 

For  one  brief,  ecstatic  moment  Dora  lies  in  those  strong 
arms,  and  weeps  for  joy  on  the  broad  breast  in  which  the 
heart  beats  so  wildly  ;  for  one  sweet  moment  while  an- 
guish flies  before  supreme  bliss,  and  anxiety  and  suspense 
melt  away  under  the  Messed  certainty  that  Ronald  is  here, 
safe,  well,  and   loves  licr  still  !      For  one   moment  !    .    .    . 

It  was  a  moment  such  as  this  whic  h  doomed  Francesca 


21 6  THE   MILLS   OF  TILE    GODS. 

da  Rimini  to  such  terrible  punishment,  and  for  which 
from  time  immemorial  men  and  women  have  sacrificed 
not  only  "all  other  bliss,"  but  "all  their  worldly  worth," 
Alas  !  these  moments  are  not  to  come  within  the  province 
of  our  human  experiences;  they  are  not  "  written  in  the 
bond"of  our  Eve-sullied  birthright.  Bewareof  them  !  For 
they  take  the  savor  out  of  all  lesser  moments  to  eternity. 
And  then  Dora  drew  herself  gently  but  firmly  from  that 
restful  embrace,  and  stood  before  Ronald  trembling  from 
head  to  foot,  but  strong  in  her  inward  purpose  to  end  all 
this  terrible  deception  and  the  consequences  it  involved, 
at  once,  and  forever.  For  dependent  and  clinging  as  she 
seemed,  this  fragile  Dora  owned  a  firmness  of  character 
and  an  inflexibility  of  decision  where  her  conscience 
battled  with  her  inclinations,  or  where  a  question  arose 
which  endangered  the  fair  spotlessness  of  her  pure  life, 
that  would  have  led  her  unflinchingly  to  the  stake  in  a 
righteous  cause,  or  would  have  submitted  her  to  that 
still  more  painful  martyrdom,  a  sacrifice  of  all  that  makes 
life  other  than  a  weary  waiting  for  death. 

She  looked  so  young  and  weak  and  fragile,  as  she  stood 
before  him  with  eyes  heavy  with  weeping  and  tlie  tender 
mouth  quivering,  that  Ronald's  heart  ached  for  her  more 
than  for  himself;  for  he  knew,  with  that  unfailing  pre- 
science of  love,  that  she  was  about  to  pronounce  his  doom 
— and  her  own. 

She  swiftly  readjusted  some  tresses  of  golden-brown 
hair  which  had  fallen  about  her  tear-drenched  face,  and 
then,  leaning  a  little  against  the  casement  to  support  her 
trembling  limbs,  she  said,  in  a  voice  husky  and  almost  in- 
audible from  emotion,  "  I  have  been  weak  and  wicked,  but 
it  is  not  loo  late  to  undo  the  evil  I  have  done.  You  say 
you  love  mc.  I  believe  you  do.  Don't  speak,  please,  yet." 
She  raised   her  hand  a  little  to  silence  liim  as  he  was 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  217 

about  to  interrupt  her.  "Yes,  I  believe  you  do  love  me, 
and  therefore  I  dare  to  ask  you  to  leave  me, — now,  at  once, 
— and  not  to  come  near  me  again,  ever,  ever  ;  for  between 
you  and  me  there  is  a  gulf  as  deep  as  death  /" 

He  was  standing  now  before  her,  with  one  hand  resting 
on  the  window-frame,  and  a  grave,  anxious  expression  on 
his  noble  face,  but  not  a  sign  of  weakness  in  those  firm 
lines  of  mouth  and  chin. 

"I  will  do  as  you  wish,  Dora,  always,  should  we  never 
stand  again  on  earth  together,"  he  said,  gently;   "but  I 
claim  as  my  right  a  hearing  before  we  part, — if  part  we 
must.      On    the    last  evening   we   were    together,   I    was 
surprised    into  a  betrayal  of   my  love   for  you,  —  a  love 
which  sprang  up  in  my  heart  in  the  single  night  after  your 
accident,  my  darling;  the  only  love  of  my  whole  life, 
and  the  only  one  that  will  be  with  me  in  my  last  hour ; 
and  you  will  remember  how  you  answered  me  !     It  was 
my  hope — my  intention — that  if  we  both  survived  these 
troublous  times,  in  some  quiet  spot  in  Switzerland,  per- 
haps, or  dear  old  England"  (she  shuddered),   "I  might 
choose  a  more  fitting  time  to  plead  my  cause.     But  these 
things  are  not   ruled    by  our  wills  or  governed   by  our 
plans;  the  moment  when  I  must  speak  has  come,  and  I 
tell  you  that  there  is  no  gulf  so  deep — save  that  only  of 
your  own  7vill — that  my  arm  will  not  span  it  and  snatch 
you  to  my  heart.      Once  there,  God  alone  can  take  you 
from  me.     Oh,  my  little  storm-beaten   flower,"  he  cried, 
taking  her  hands  with  gentle  force  in  his,  "  give  yourself 
up  to  me  !  let  me  take  you  away  out  of  Paris, — to  my 
dear  sister's  arms,  that  you  may  rest  at  last !"     He  stopped, 
wondering  at  the  burst  of  sobs  which  shook  her  whole  form 
in  an  anguish  which  only  God  and  his  angels  should  have 
witnessed. 

She  tore  her  hands  away  from  him.     '•'  Ah,  do  not,"  she 
K  19 


2i8  THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 

cried, — "do  not  try  to  tempt  me  1  I  cannot;  I  have  no 
right ;  I  am  unworthy !  Ah,  if  you  knew  how  false  and 
wicked  I  have  been,  you  would  not  stand  there  and  plead 
for  a  heart  that  is  broken  through  its  own  sin!"  She 
made  a  terrible  effort,  and  resumed,  more  calmly  :  "  There 
is  no  use  in  prolonging  this  pain;  you  will  believe  me 
when  I  say  that  your  hope  can  never  be  7'ealized,  and  that 
I  can  no  longer  see  you  or  accept  your  friendship  (and  it 
has  been  very  precious  to  me),  after  to-day." 

She  was  turning  away  when  he  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
arm, — "Dora,  you  are  mad  ;  you  love  me,  and  you  are 
leaving  me  !  What  is  this  mystery  which  overshadows 
you?  Give  me  at  least  a  hint  of  its  nature,  that  I  may 
dissolve  it  into  air  !" 

"  I  cannot!"  she  moaned,  "I  cannot !  It  is  too  late.  I 
should  have  told  you  long  ago, — before  things  came  to 
such  a  pass  as  this  ;  but  I  did  not,  because  I  was  weak 
and  lonely,  and  your  love  was  so  sweet  to  me  ;  and  now, 
look  at  what  punishment  I  have  brought  upon  myself; 
not  my  pain  only,  but  yours ^ 

"But  I  will  not  suffer  it,"  he  answered,  in  clear, 
ringing  tones.  "Were  I  alone  the  sufferer,  you  might 
have  found  me  a  marvel  of  patience  ;  but  you  are  griev- 
ing ;  you,  who  have  had  so  much  to  bear  of  late.  Can  I 
allow  you,  then,  to  take  the  responsibility  of  deciding  for 
us  both  in  this  question?  No,  a  hundred  times  no!  I 
will  accept  no  dismissal  in  the  dark.  Give  me  your  rea- 
sons, and  let  me  sift  them  for  you  ;  otherwise  you  must 
submit  to  my  presence,  and  in  time  let  me  take  all  your 
burdens  on  myself." 

She  looked  at  him,  seeming  to  devour  his  words  (what 
a  strong,  masterful  voice  he  had  !),  a  death-like  paleness  in 
her  face  ;  suddenly  she  swayed  backward  and  forward 
slightly,  and  as  he  sprang  towards  her,  sank  down  on  the 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  219 

bench  beneath  her.  She  had  fainted  ;  the  great  strain  had 
relaxed  j  the  decisive  words  remained  unspoken;  sleep- 
less nights  of  anxiety  and  fatigue  had  done  their  work. 
And  as  he  raised  her  in  his  arms,  Ronald  scarcely  could 
restrain  his  tears  from  falling  on  her  poor  white  face. 

This  was  the  second  time  he  had  held  Dora  in  his  arms 
unconscious  ;  how  long  ago  seemed  that  first  sight  of  her 
measured  by  the  growth  of  his  love  since  then  !  And,  as 
he  bent  over  his  idol,  it  is  characteristic  of  the  man  that 
he  did  not  venture  to  press  his  lips  to  the  marble  face, — 
which  could  not  then  have  repulsed  him  ;  it  seemed  like 
taking  a  mean  advantage  of  her  helplessness. 

He  carried  her  quickly  to  the  little  cabinet  where  they 
had  dined  together  so  joyously  a  few  days  before,  and, 
laying  her  on  the  sofa,  sent  a  passer-by  for  Agnes. 

As  he  waited  impatiently  for  her  arrival,  chafing  Dora's 
cold  hands,  and  bathing  her  temples  with  water,  the 
while,  he  could  not  repress  a  shudder  at  the  shrill  treble 
of  Marian's  bird-like  voice,  as  she  sang  gayly,  perched 
upon  the  foot  of  Jean  Picot's  cot,  a  little  French  catizon, 
of  which  she  had  caught  perfectly  the  air  and  words.  How 
many  hours  had  the  little  ambulance-fairy  not  cheated  out 
of  gloom  and  despondency  for  those  anxious  sufferers,  con- 
demned to  a  trying  inaction,  by  her  bright  prattle  and 
her  sweet  little  French  songs  ! 

Agnes's  efforts  to  restore  Dora  to  consciousness  were 
successful ;  but  when  she  opened  her  eyes  and  looked 
about  her, — hoping  and  fearing  to  see  Ronald's  earnest 
face, — she  met  only  Agnes's  pitying  eyes  and  murmured 
words  of  comfort. 

He  had  deemed  it  best  to  spare  her  further  agitation, 
and,  after  visiting  his  patients  in  the  ward  adjoining,  he 
had  gone  away  to  other  cases  outside.  A  few  words  with 
Agnes  before  he  went  showed   the  deep  anxiety  Dora's 


2  20        THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 

incomprehensible  conduct  had  cost  him.  "  She  is  laboring 
under  some  mistaken  sense  of  duty,  Sister  Agnes,"  he 
said,  "and  will  listen  to  nothing  I  can  say  to  change  her 
determination.  You  have  been  a  faithful  friend  to  her. 
Can  you  see  any  reason  for  this  strange  refusal  to  let  me 
care  for  her?  Tell  me,  Agnes,  do  you  think  she  loves 
me  ?"  She  could  barely  catch  the  words,  so  low  were  they 
whispered. 

"  I  fear  she  does,  and  in  that  fact  lies  her  reason  for 
denying  you  any  share  in  her  existence."  Agnes  spoke 
hurriedly,  and  as  if  the  words  hurt  her,  but  viust  be  spoken. 
"I  imagine  that  it  is  her  past  which  is  weighing  her 
down ;  some  fault,  perhaps,  or  treachery,  which  she  had 
hoped  to  outlive  alone,  but  would  not  shadow  with  it 
the  man  she  loved.  There  !  I  have  told  you  my  sus- 
picion, because  I  love  her  too  dearly  to  see  her  suffer,  and 
because  I  believe  you  to  be  too  noble  to  let  xS^q past  come 
between  you  and  her  now  !"  She  bent  her  head,  and  the 
scarlet  flush  in  her  face  told  how  great  an  effort  had  been 
made  in  the  cause  of  friendship. 

"Agnes,"  he  said,  gravely,  "Dora's  life  can  hold  no 
foul  sin  ;  her  eyes  are  guileless  as  a  child's;  her  heart  is 
pure  as  an  angel's.  But  if  it  were  not  so;  if  I  had  to 
stoop  and  lift  her  from  the  very  dregs  of  crime,  I  would 
do  so ;  for  I  love  her,  and  would  shield  her  from  every 
evil  and  danger  and  pain — in  life.  Tell  her  this  for  me; 
and  also,  that  should  I  wait  for  her  until  her  chestnut  hair 
turns  gray,  I  will  wait,  not  patiently,  but  faithfully,  until 
that  time  comes." 

Agnes  cauglit  his  hand  as  the  last  word  fell  from  his 
lips,  and,  with  an  irrepressible  impulse,  laid  her  cheek 
upon  it,  crying,  "  God  bless  you  !  Oh,  you  have  a  great, 
noble  heart!"  and  fled  back  to  poor  Dora  to  pour  this 
balm  into  her  wounded  spirit. 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS.  221 

But,  to  her  intense  surprise,  Dora  only  wept  and  shook 
her  head,  and  refused  to  be  comforted.  What  could  it 
mean?  Surely,  such  all-forgiving  charity  as  that  prom- 
ised by  the  young  Englishman  should  banish  all  doubts 
and  fears  and  fill  her  soul  with  peace  !  What  if  her  past 
held  one  blotted  page,  as  she  had  undoubtedly  confessed 
to  Agnes,  here  was  a  love  so  deep  that  it  could  hide  in  its 
great  trust  even  such  a  secret  as  this,  and  cover  with  its 
wings  the  penitent  head  which  was  bowed  upon  its  bosom. 
Was  it  not  mad  folly  to  cast  away  such  shelter,  such  divine 
compassion,  such  adoring  devotion,  as  this? 

"You  will  tell  him,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  Agnes's 
pleadings,  "  that  /'/  cannot  be.  Agnes,  spare  me  any 
further  entreaties  ;  you  are  trying  me  too  severely.  Have 
pity ;  //  cannot  be  /' ' 

And  after  Agnes  had  left  her  alone  with  her  bitter  pain ; 
with  the  yearning  in  her  desolate  heart  which  was  sin; 
with  a  wild  repining  at  the  darkness  of  her  days,  after  the 
sunny  brightness  of  all  those  former  years  before  that  fatal 
mistake  which  wrought  her  woe  for  evermore, — the  ques- 
tion which  tormented  her,  who  could  answer?     Should 
she  betray  the  secret   of  her   marriage?     Was  she  not 
absolved  from  the  oath  extorted  from  her  by  a  man  so 
false  and  base  as  Faucett  had  proved  himself?     Had  she 
not  told  him  that  she  would  force  him  to  acknowledge 
her  claims,  if  he  had  not  come  to  do  so  voluntarily,  after 
a  sufficient  time  had  elapsed  upon  his  return  to  England? 
Had  those  last  bitter  words  of  his,  that  well-nigh  broke 
her  heart,  not  sundered  all  tie  between  them  ?     AVas  she, 
in  God's  sight,  this  man's  wife  still?    This  man,  who  had 
never  loved  her,  who  had  coveted  her,  and  married  her 
simply  because  she  was  pure  ;   who  had  wearied  of  her 
before  twelve  moons  had  risen  and  wanctl ;  who  had  sys- 
tematically neglected  her,  exposed  her  to  peril,  crushed 

I  (J* 


222  THE  MILLS    OF   THE    CODS. 

her  under  the  heel  of  his  one-idead  egotism,  and  then 
abandoned  her,  ill  almost  unto  death,  with  a  heartlessness 
not  less  cowardly  than  inhuman. 

Yes,  she  felt  sure  that  she  was  absolved  from  her  prom- 
ise of  keeping  thei;  marriage  an  inviolable  secret.  She 
would  tell  Ronald  how  it  was  that  she  seemed  so  cruel 
and  unreasonable  in  his  sight ;  and  he  would  forgive  her, 
and  love  her  still,  and  see  that  he  must  go  away  from  her 
— where?  To  England,  where  Dyke  Faucett  was?  And 
would  it  be  possible  for  Ronald  to  live  in  the  same  land 
with  that  man,  who  has  so  wrecked  both  their  lives,  and  not 
seek  him  out,  and — then — then — all,  what  might  not  be  the 
result  ?  But  she  might  suppress  his  name,  and  there  could 
be  no  danger  of  a  meeting  between  these  two  men.  Yes, 
she  would  tell  Buchanan  all  ;  all  the  trials  of  those  dread- 
ful years  when  she  lived  under  the  shadow  of  a  hopeless 
disappointment,  striving  to  fill  her  starved  heart  with  the 
caresses  of  her  child, — all,  save  the  name  of  the  man  who 
had  betrayed  her  trust  in  him.  "  For  I  must  not  let  him 
think  me  vile,"  she  said.  "And  what  did  Agnes  mean 
by  her  'He  is  willing  to  overlook  the  past  and  all  the 
pain  in  it,  if  you  will  let  him  do  so?'  Overlook  the 
past !  Ah,  Ronald,  my  past  can  bear  even  your  eyes  into 
its  darkest  corners ;  there  are  plenty  of  tears,  but  no 
blushes  to  be  found  there,  thank  Heaven  !"  And  so  she 
slept. 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    CODS.  223 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

It  was  the  height  of  tlie  London  season.  Half  a  dozen 
crushes  nightly,  in  the  wake  of  just  a  "show"  at  the  opera, 
now  in  full-blown  glory,  which  followed  in  due  procession 
"the  horticultural,"  the  afternoon  concert,  the  kettle- 
drum, or  a  hundred  other  divertissements  in  the  offering  up 
of  sacrifices  to  Moloch. 

The  streets  smiled  under  the  indefatigable  efforts  of  a 
regiment  of  scavengers  (masculine  and  feminine  bundles 
of  rags),  happy  in  the  rich  harvest  of  coppers  flung  by 
the  munificent  hand  of  "the  season."  Shops,  gay  with 
their  tempting  wares,  smiled  out  of  their  plate-glass  win- 
dows with  the  seductive  leer  peculiar  to  them.  The  great 
casements  of  the  West-End  clubs  were  ornamented  by 
the  array  of  manly  beauty  which  suns  itself  in  yawning 
luxuriousness  there,  invariably,  in  the  smiles  and  shy 
glances  of  the  passers-by  :  groups  of  whiskers,  varying 
little  in  style,  but  of  an  infinite  variety  of  hue;  coats  of 
irreproachable  cut;  a  glass  screwed  into  the  near-eye,  the 
off-eye  inevitably  vacuous  from  exhaustion.  Equipages 
of  every  description,  rolling  magnificently,  or  gliding 
sneakingly,  along:  the  stylish  landau,  with  its  high-step- 
ping, perfectly-matched  animals  ;  the  quiet  victoria,  and 
the  distinguished  simplicity  of  the  comfortable  brougham, 
interspersed  with  the  plebeian  hansom,  or  that  despised 
maid-of-all-work,  the  "growler." 

Let  us  not  stand  stock-still  gaping  into  those  entrancing 
shop-windows,  or  into  the  comical  foce  of  the  Punch  who 
is  sending  his  wife  to  the  devil  persistently,  at  every  corner 
throughout  the  London  season,  exposing  by  our  na'ivcii 


224 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


our  country  origin,  to  the  amusement  of  the  genuine 
cockney  ;  and,  above  all,  let  us  not  betray  our  amaze- 
ment, otherwise  than  by  a  prolonged  stare,  at  the  appa- 
rition, wonderful  to  behold,  which  reclines  obesely  on 
the  soft  satin  cushions  of  an  open  carriage,  passing  at  this 
moment. 

Not  in  "purple  and  fine  linen"  only,  is  my  lady  of  the 
rubicund  countenance  clothed, — such  a  combination  being 
too  pur  et  simple  for  the  national  taste, — but  there  is  a 
commiiigliir^  of  the  "  seven  pfimaries,^^  which  would  cause 
actual  t?ial  au  cceiir  to  a  Parisienne  pur  sa?ig;  the  whole 
surmounted  by  the  favorite  sky-blue  parasol,  from  beneath 
whose  fringes  peeps  forth  the  deliciously-grotesque  hideous- 
ness  of  the  inevitable///-^ — rose-ribboned. 

The  "British  matron"  is  of  all  matrons  (Roman  in- 
cluded), the  most  admirable.  Of  her.  virtues,  Heaven 
forbid  that  I  should  insinuate  a  doubt !  All  honor  to 
her,  as  a  model  wife  and  mother,  as  social  law-maker,  as 
hostess,  and  as  friend  !  There  were  only  three  Hxiry  god- 
mothers forgotten  at  her  christening, — the  French  chaus- 
seiir,  the  French  couturiere,  and  the  French  femnie-de- 
chambre.  Those  fair  daughters  of  Albion  whose  youth 
has  been  more  propitiously  attended,  and  who  boast  these 
acquisitions,  are  unrivaled  in  the  world.  The  Channel 
is  less  wide  than  formerly.  There  are  many  such  divine 
combinations  as  beauty,  healtli,  freshness,  well-dressed, 
well-shod,  coijfee  a  ravir,  on  that  deliciously-exhausting 
tread-mill  of  London  society  this  season. 

Perhaps  it  is  because  the  Parisians  possess  so  little  real 
beauty,  that  they  have  elevated  the  toilet  to  a  fine  art, 
and  cultivate  it  to  such  perfection. 

And  yet  taste  in  dress  is  an  instinct  more  than  an  ac- 
quired talent.  See  the  Spanish  and  Italian  peasantry,  how 
picturesquely  they  array  themselves;  and  the  simplest  gri- 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  225 

sette  in  Paris  boasts  a  certain  toiirnurc  in  her  cotton 
gown,  and  in  her  snowy  cap  a  dainty  coquetry,  with 
ahvays  a  dash  of  color  in  her  breast-knot,  if  only  a  sou's 
worth  of  violets,  or  a  pale  pink  rose.  They  are  never 
gaudy,  the  Parisians ;  even  the  class  which  revels  in  the 
costliest  raiment  is  rarely  "loud"  in  style;  their  love  is 
for  neutral  tints,  soft  grays  and  pearls  and  mauves,  or 
black  velvets ;  and,  above  all,  they  adore  the  cachemire 
and  priceless  laces.  Thousands  of  francs  in  a  toilette, 
if  you  please,  but  let  it  be  disiingi/ee  above  all  things. 
Rarely  is  one's  eye  shocked  by  vulgar  contrast  of  color 
on  their  side  of  the  Channel ;  we  must  go  for  that  start- 
ling experience  to  sober  England,  or — to  the  Comanche 
Indians. 

And  there,  strolling  slowly  under  the  trees,  over  the 
velvet  turf  of  Regent's  Park,  with  a  golden-haired  child 
on  one  side  and  Percival  Tyrrell  on  the  other,  is  an  illus- 
tration of  the  theory  of  an  innate,  artistic  taste  in  the 
lower  orders. 

There  is  something  inexpressibly  refined  and  elegante 
about  that  tall,  willowy  figure  of  Anne  Ogilvie's.  In  her 
simple  morning-dress  of  fine  white  cambric,  with  its 
neatly-fitting  jacket,  garnished  with  crisp,  fluted  frills, 
with  her  white  chip  bonnet,  destitute  of  other  trimming 
than  a  careless  spray  of  the  wild  rose  with  its  buds  and 
tender  green  foliage,  Anne  looked  the  incarnation  of  a 
June  morning.  Between  the  folds  of  the  lace  fichu  which 
half  revealed  her  snowy  throat,  nestled  one  great  mellow- 
looking  tea-rose,  half-blown,  whose  fragrance  encom- 
passed her  about  as  if  it  belonged  to  her.  She  really  was 
'' gentiile  a  croquer,''  and  Tyrrell  thought,  as  he  sauntered 
by  her  side,  that  she  looked  fresh  and  fair  and  sweet  as  a 
daisy  with  the  dew  upon  it. 

In  the  distance  stood  the  brougham  which  had  brought 


2  26        THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

the  little  lady  Valerie  and  her  governess  to  the  Park  for 
an  airing,  as  foot-exercise  was  deemed  advisable  for  the 
young  lady.  It  has  been  their  favorite  resort  for  weeks, 
and  this  is  only  one  of  many  delightful  walks  and  talks 
Anne  and  Tyrrell  had  partaken  of  together.  After  the 
prohibition  of  the  countess,  which  precluded  all  possi- 
bility of  meeting  Anne  in  the  orthodox  propriety  of 
drawing-room  limits,  Tyrrell,  man-like,  had  desired  all 
the  more  ardently  to  encounter  her  in  the  more  uncon- 
ventional latitude  of  the  Park  at  Grantly,  to  which  her 
walks  were  circumscribed. 

Therefore  he  laid  in  wait  for  her  in  the  grounds  daily, 
and  never  could  be  persuaded  that  it  might  cause  dis- 
pleasure, and  bring  down  upon  her  the  wrath  of  the  auto- 
crat who  had  decreed  that  she  was  unfit  for  such  select 
company  as  that  which  comprised  the  social  circle  of 
"  her  betters."  At  first,  Anne  could  not  overcome  her 
feeling  of  shyness,  and  repugnance  at  being  misconstrued 
by  her  employers  a  second  time,  for  she  had  soon  begun 
to  comprehend  the  reason  why  she  had  been  ostracised. 
The  countess's  manner  to  her  was  invariably  courteous 
and  kind  when  they  met  out  of  the  presence  of  others, 
after  that  evening  in  the  library,  but  if  there  were  wit- 
nesses to  their  interviews,  she  was  chilling,  haughty,  and 
reserved. 

Anne  was  not  slow  to  read  these  signs  ;  her  intuitions 
had  been  forced  prematurely  in  her  solitary  girlhood,  and 
she  felt  keenly  this  change  in  the  aspect  of  her  position. 
She  knew  as  well  as  if  the  countess  had  spoken,  "  My 
dear  Miss  Ogilvie,  I  do  not  object  to  you  personally,  also 
I  feel  sure  that  your  duties  are  executed  conscientiously, 
and  I  would  fain  extend  to  you  some  little  kindliness,  but 
my  friends  assure  me  that  you  are  dangerous  (you  cannot 
deny  that  they  are  just  in   their  estimate  of  you),  and. 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  227 

therefore,  you  must  be  suppressed.  I  am  sorry,  but — qtie 
voulez-vous  f  I  fancy  Anne  would  have  liked  her  lady- 
ship better  and  respected  her  more,  had  these  words  been 
audibly  expressed.  As  it  was,  she  trembled  and  sought  to 
evade  the  ^pertinacious  attempts  of  Tyrrell  to  break 
through  the  rigid  seclusion  which  she  believed  her  dig- 
nity demanded  ;  but,  after  a  time,  his  arguments  pre- 
vailed ;  she  saw  through  his  eyes  that  there  was  no  harm 
in  an  occasional  opportunity  of  conversation,  which  in 
nowise  interfered  with  the  peace  of  any  inmate  of  the 
house  of  which  he  was  a  guest. 

I  fear  she  looked  for  him  as  eagerly  as  he  for  her,  and 
was  perhaps  more  disappointed,  when  he  failed  to  be  found 
lounging  at  the  foot  of  their  favorite  copper-beech  with 
his  book,  than  he  would  have  been  had  he  not  perceived 
the  flutter  of  her  white  dress  among  the  rose-bushes. 

Their  talk  was  of  the  most  prosaic  description  ;  no  halo 
of  romance  or  sentiment  lingered  over  a  single  interview  ; 
they  might  have  been  a  couple  of  students,  or  a  preceptor 
and  his  pupil,  so  thoroughly  void  of  all  coquetry  on  her 
part,  or  love-making  on  his,  was  their  intercourse.  They 
talked  of  books,  of  art,  of  music,  and  even  of  the  politics 
of  the  nations  ;  of  antiquities,  and  of  his  postponed  jour- 
ney to  the  East ;  of  all  and  everything  which  could  prove 
how  congenial  were  their  tastes,  their  thoughts,  their  as- 
pirations; how  thoroughly  the  one  comprehended-  the 
complex  nature  of  the  other ;  how  like  a  fine  instrument 
under  the  hand  of  a  master  the  grand  chords  of  Anne's 
harmonious  character  rolled  out  their  deep-toned  music; 
and  how  all  the  sweetest,  softest  melodies  in  Tyrrell's  un- 
stirred silences,  vibrated  to  the  touch  of  Anne's  gentle 
fingers. 

And  this  they  both  acknowledged  in  their  hearts,  al- 
though their  tongues  had  never  whispered  it  or  tlicir  eyes 


2  28        THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

betrayed  it  all  through  those  months  when  he  had  seen  her^ 
constantly,  even,  after  his  visit  to  Grantly  had  terminated, 
running  down  from  London  for  the  purpose.  He  had 
always  some  plausible  pretext  for  his  visits,  however;  it  was 
a  new  book  which  she  had  desired  to  see,  and  he  was  going 
fishing  in  the  neighborhood,  or,  he  was  en  route  to  an- 
other country-house  in  the  adjoining  county,  where  he 
would  spend  a  fortnight  and  ride  over  occasionally. 

He  never  came  empty-handed  ;  and  after  a  while  Anne 
came  to  have  quite  a  little  library  of  her  own,  of  which 
the  pleasure  was  not  decreased  by  the  thought  that,  in  the 
pages  of  each  book  comprised  therein,  she  could  meet  on 
equal  ground  the  spirit  of  the  donor, — the  ground  of  an 
intellectual  appreciation,  the  freemasonry  which  levels  all 
differences  of  station  or  fortune, — the  fellowship  oi  mind. 

For  it  seemed  to  touch  Anne  Ogilvie  into  a  deeper 
humility,  the  fact  that  this  man,  whose  rare  beauty  and 
fascination,  whose  fine  intelligence  and  unexceptionable 
introductions,  had  made  him  sought  after  and  in  request 
at  every  dinner,  ball,  and  social  gathering  where  he  or 
his  friends  were  known,  should  have  so  singled  out  and 
distinguished  by  his  preference  a  lonely,  friendless  orphan, 
occupying  the  position  of  a  dependent  in  the  house  of  a 
great  lady,  who  would  undoubtedly  have  swooned  away 
had  any  one  suggested  an  equality  between  her  and  her 
hireling  governess. 

But  Tyrrell  was  an  American,  and  democratic  enough 
to  acknowledge  that  a  pearl  was  a  pearl  when  he  stumbled 
on  one.  An  Englishman  often  drops  the  pearl  in  his 
effort  to  open  the  oyster  in  an  awkward  but  aristocratic 
manner.  And  shall  we  censure  him  ?  It  has  become  such 
a  difficult  and  hazardous  operation,  this  opening  of  the 
oyster.  Inexpert  hands  are  often  lacerated  in  the  process, 
and  ofttimes,  after  the  shell  has  at  last  yielded,  the  tempt- 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


229 


ing  bivalve  is  just  a  trifle  less  fresh  than  one  expected,  or 
the  flavor  is  flatter  than  one  anticipated,  or  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  salt  and  pepper  to  be  laid  on  before  one  can 
swallow  the  thing  without  a  wry  face.  Meanwhile,  alas  ! 
the  pearl  worth  a  king's  ransom  rolls  away,  and  hides 
itself  in  some  crevice  out  of  sight  ! 

"What  is  your  name,  Miss  Ogilvie?"  asked  Tyrrell, 
catechetically, — "  your  Christian  name,  as,  I  believe,  it  is 
called?"  on  that  June  morning  in  the  Regent's  Park. 

"  My  name  is  not  an  euphonious  one,"  she  replied  ;  "  it 
is  Anne." 

"Anne  !  Anne  !"  He  dwelt  on  the  monosyllable  lov- 
ingly. "It  is  a  homely  name  (I  mean  homely  in  the  real 
sense  of  the  word  ;  why  it  should  be  otherwise  used  I 
cannot  tell).  It  is  a  simple  name,  full  of  comfortable 
suggestions.  Anne  !  It  has  a  ring  of  royalty  about  it 
too;  a  smack  of  dignity  and  command.     I  like  it." 

Anne's  smile  brought  into  play  the  dimples  on  each 
cheek,  where  the  rose-bloom  had  deepened  perceptibly. 

"  Few  people  like  their  own  names,"  she  said.  "  Mine 
has  often  sounded  very  harsh  to  me." 

"  Indeed  !"  He  looked  down  kindly  at  her.  "  It  may 
be  that  the  voice  which  took  )our  name  upon  its  rude  lips 
lent  it  harshness;   there  is  much  in  that." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  assented,  thinking  what  a  musical  caress 
had  sounded  in  his  "  Anne  !  Anne  !" 

"  Now  I,  on  the  contrary,  have  always  fancied  my  name. 
'  Percival'  would  have  been  my  clioice,  had  I  been  con- 
sulted, even  before  I  read  the  legend  of  the  Holy  Grail," 
he  continued,  smiling.  "  I  always  feel  like  buckling  on 
my  armor  and  going  forth  to  do  battle  for  the  right,  when 
I  meditate  on  the  responsibility  my  sponsors  laid  upon  me 
with  this  name  and  its  associations." 

"Yes,  they  are  certainly  very  beautiful  and  fascinating, 

20 


230  THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

in  a  poetical,  visionary  way,"  Anne  replied  ;  "■  but  do  you 
know,  had  I  been  a  man,  I  should  have  chosen  something 
more  rugged  as  ray  model, — like  Oliver  Cromwell,  or 
better  still,  like  Martin  Luther.  Ah,  there  was  a  great, 
fiery  soul,  if  you  will ;  a  strong,  fearless  image-breaker, 
as  somebody  calls  him ;  a  soldier  every  inch  of  him, 
— a  soldier  of  the  cross, — brave  and  strong  and  noble, 
and  yet  with  such  tenderness  and  poetic  sensibility  at 
times  !" 

Tyrrell  looked  at  her,  a  glow  of  delight  in  his  face. 

*'  You  are  quite  right !"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  that  man  was 
inspired  ;  it  is  a  grand  character.     He  is  always  associated 

with  those  words  of  Jean  Paul "     He  hesitated,  and 

Anne  said,  softly, — 

"  Tell  me  them,  please ;  I  cannot  recall  which  you 
mean." 

"It  is  something  like  this:  'When,  in  one's  last  mo- 
ments, all  faculty  in  the  broken  spirit  shall  fade  away  and 
die, — imagination,  thought,  effort,  enjoyment, — then  at 
last  will  the  night-flower  of  Belief  alone  continue  bloom- 
ing, and  refresh  with  its  perfume  the  last  darkness.'  And 
this  precious  legacy  Luther  left  to  many  a  benighted  soul. 
Ah,  yes,  it  was  grand,  this  sturdy  fighting  for  the  great 
truth  of  Christianity  !  Why  did  you  mention  Cromwell? 
Did  you  know  that  he  has  been  compared  to  Luther  by 
Carlyle,  I  think?" 

"No;  I  had  forgotten  it.  But  they  are  alike;  they 
are  both  rough,  earnest,  uncompromising  warriors,  with 
the  same  stern  conscientiousness  and  rigid  ideas  of  disci- 
pline." 

"Voltaire  ascribes  'something  of  the  bully'  to  both  of 
them,"  continued  Tyrrell  ;  then  abru[)tly:  "How  did  you 
come  to  speak  of  Martin  Luther,  I  wonder?  He  is  one  of 
my  great  ideals.     Strange  !   Strange  that  you  should  creep 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


231 


into  the  lumber-room  of  my  oldest  fancies  and  uncover 
them,  dusty  from  neglect,  to  the  light  of  day." 

Tyrrell  had  taken  off  his  hat,  and  was  striding  on  bare- 
headed, with  shoulders  thrown  back,  and  quickened  steps, 
as  if  to  the  sound  of  martial  music,  as  was  his  habit  when 
excited.  His  thoughts  were  all  with  Martin  Luther  now. 
He  was  subject  to  these  fits  of  silence  even  with  Anne, 
which  she  was  careful  never  to  interrupt.  She  was  con- 
tent to  wait  until  his  thoughts  stretched  out  towards  her 
again,  even  after  she  found  that,  when  he  recalled  himself 
to  the  fact  that  he  was  not  alone,  it  was  often  to  ejaculate 
a  farewell  and  leave  her,  without  further  parley. 

Ten  minutes  passed.  Little  Valerie,  walking  behind 
them  with  a  young  companion  whose  mamma  had  dropped 
her  from  one  of  the  carriages  drowsing  along  in  the  dis- 
tance, laughed  out  merrily  at  some  remarks  of  her  little 
friend.  Tyrrell  awoke  from  his  reverie,  drew  a  long 
breath,  replaced  his  hat,  and  said,  whilst  he  moderated 
his  pace  to  Anne's, — 

"  Do  you  remember  his  marriage?  How  characteristic 
is  his  explanation  of  his  choice  of  the  ex-nun,  Catherina 
von  Bora  !  He  '  wished  to  please  his  father,  to  tease  the 
Pope,  and  to  vex  the  devil.'  No  mention  of  himself  or 
his  own  inclinations;  he  had  crucified  them  all  long 
before." 

"Not  too  gratifying  to  the  lady,"  laughed  Anne, 
"and  done  very  much  in  the  same  spirit  in  which  he 
glories  in  his  obscure  origin  and  poverty.  I  believe  he 
earned  his  bread,  at  one  time,  singing  from  door  to  door; 
as  he  says,  'It  is  God's  way  to  make  men  of  power  of 
beggars,  just  as  he  made  the  world  out  of  nothing,'  you 
remember. ' ' 

"  How  true  that  is !"  commented  Percival.  "  The  great- 
est minds  of  all  ages  have  sprung  from   the  attic  or  the 


232  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

cellar,  the  highest  and  lowest  rungs  of  the  ladder  of  poverty 
and  obscurity,  almost  invariably." 

"Yes,"  Anne  assented,  "genius  seems  to  thrive  in 
poor  soil,  and  a  dried  herring  does  not  clog  the  imagina- 
tion as  the  petits  plats  of  an  accomplished  chef  might.  I 
doubt  if  the  '  Paradise  Lost'  could  ever  have  been  written 
had  Milton  dined  off  eight  courses  and  a  chasse^ 

"And  yet,"  returned  Tyrrell,  "the  manuscript  only 
sold,  at  first,  for  five  pounds." 

"Is  it  possible?  Can  you  imagine  anything  more  em- 
bittering than  such  a  proof  of  ignorant  stupidity  ?  Such 
a  want  of  appreciation  must  be  maddening  to  a  man  of 
genius." 

"  It  is  so,"  he  answered  ;  "  the  knife  that  struck  poor 
Keats  and  Chatterton  to  the  heart  has  dealt  as  certain,  if 
less  swift,  destruction  to  many  an  older  and  stronger  man, 
Milton  was  not  blinder  in  his  old  age  than  the  herd  who 
failed  to  recognize  his  godlike  gifts  during  his  lifetime; 
and  the  adder  is  not  so  deaf  as  the  multitude  who  listened 
to  Beethoven's  music,  without  yielding  him  the  crown  of 
his  wondrous  genius  until  his  last  hour;  for  Beethoven 
only  knew  that  one  perfectly  happy  hour  in  his  life,  and 
it  killed  him." 

"Ah,  yes,  he  had  lived  so  long  upon  hope,  you  see, 
that  when  the  realization  of  his  dreams  came,  he  was  too 
weak  to  bear  the  shock.  Hope  is  not  a  substantial  diet, 
and  often  grows  most  shadowy  when  one  feels  most 
starved."  Anne  sighed  ;  she  was  thinking  of  her  brother, 
and  the  peril  which  she  was  so  weary  of  picturing  to  her- 
self. 

"I  have  driven  )ou  into  melancholy,"  cried  Percival, 
with  a  quick  sympathy,  self-reproachful,  "  with  my  maun- 
derings  about  blighted  geniuses  and  my  mouldy  recol- 
lections of  my  boyhood's  ideals.     Even  Martin  Luther  is 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  233 

not  worth  such  a  plaintive  sigh  as  that  I  caught  just  now. 
After  all,  Miss  Ogilvie,  a  later  experience  has  brought  to 
my  knowledge  the  physiological  fact  that  ammoniated 
tincture  of  assafoetida  is  an  infallible  prescription  for 
people  who  are  inclined  to  religious  enthusiasms  and 
new  doctrines.  Who  knows  how  far  a  box  of  pills  might 
have  cooled  the  ardor  of  the  great  reformer?" 

"  And  you  are  sure,"  she  rejoined,  laughing,  "  that  all 
manias  will  yield  to  drugs?  If  so,  what  would  you  re- 
commend to  a  Romeo  or  a  Juliet  ?  Has  your  scientific 
research  reached  that  extreme  of  madness?" 

"  Do  you  call  love  a  mania?"  he  asked,  with  one  quick 
glance  into  the  dark-blue  eyes.  "If  it  were,"  he  con- 
cluded, as  she  did  not  reply,  "there  will  be  no  need  for 
building  additional  lunatic  asylums,  for  it  is  a  rare  type  of 
aberration  nowadays."  Still  silence;  and  they  walked 
on  side  by  side,  but  their  thoughts  on  this  subject  far  as 
the  poles  asunder. 

Can  it  be  expected  that  the  virgin  heart  of  a  girl  of 
twenty-three  can  view  the  dear,  delightful  subject  through 
the  experience-clouded  glasses  of  cynical  thirty-five  ?  Ah, 
no ;  to  one,  it  was  a  very  El  Dorado  of  unexplored 
golden  promise ;  to  the  other,  but  a  sandy  desert  where 
no  flower  bloomed  or  fountain  bubbled. 

"Why  did  you  mention  Romeo  and  Juliet?  Do  they 
form  your  idea  of  '  love's  sweet  madness'  ?  "  Tyrrell  asked, 
presently. 

"  You  will  laugh  at  me  if  I  tell  you  that  I  consider  the 
character  of  Juliet  one  of  Shakspeare's  best  conceptions. 
I  do  not  see  in  her,  as  many  do,  a  love-sick,  silly  girl, 
misguided  and  pampered  by  a  doting  nurse.  She  loved 
with  all  the  fire  and  intensity  of  her  Italian  nature, 
knowing  no  restraint  or  reason  for  restraint;  she  loved 
for  the  first    lime  in  her  life,   with   her  whole   soul   and 

20* 


234 


TFIE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


Strength  and  mind  ;  her  thoughts  were  all  absorbed  with 
the  one  fair  picture  of  her  gallant  Romeo ;  her  eyes  saw 
only  his  face  and  form  in  the  whole  world ;  there  was  no 
vapid  weakness  in  her  love,  but  a  fiery  energy, — a  wonder- 
ful courage, — which  was  able,  without  shrinking,  to  carry 
out  the  horrible  stratagem  that  ended  in  her  death  !" 
Anne  stopped  suddenly,  blushing  at  her  own  enthusiasm. 
"Yes,"  Tyrrell  observed,  quite  gravely,  "it  is  a  very 
beautiful  picture  of  love's  tragedy  in  those  days,  and 
under  the  skies  of  Italy, — a  masterpiece  in  its  way;  but 
the  love  of  to-day,  in  foggy  England, — have  you  any 
picture  of  that  in  the  gallery  of  your  imagination  to  show 
me?  I  have  a  companion  picture  to  yours  somewhere  in 
a  far-away  corner  of  my  memory,  but  I  am  afraid  you  do 


not  care  to  see  it." 


"You  are  not  treating  me  quite  fairly,"  she  laughed, 
blushing  still ;  "I  dare  say  it  is  Dante  and  his  Beatrice." 
This  with  a  slight  scoff. 

"No,  not  half  so  fine,"  he  answered;  "it  is  only, — on 
my  honor,  Miss  Ogilvie, — it  is  only  Schiller's  Max  and 
Thekla.  I  am  very  fond  of  them,  and  if  I  ever  allow  my 
thoughts  to  wander  into  more  than  ordinary  imbecility, 
they  fasten  themselves  upon  Thekla.  There  is  something 
about  the  German  character  which  inspires  trust ;  a  solid- 
ity, not  graceful  perhaps,  but  which  is  not  devoid  of  a 
certain  restfulness,  very  captivatingto  the  storm-tossed." 

Before  Anne  could  answer,  the  carriage  of  the  Honorable 
Mrs.  Somers  drew  up,  and,  the  young  girls  being  separated, 
Anne  felt  that  it  was  time  to  return  to  their  brougham, 
on  which  the  coachman  was  dozing  gently.  He  was 
awakened  rather  rudely  by  a  sharp  elbow  applied  with  some 
force  in  thelocality  of  hisribs:  "I  say,  Markham,  wake  up! 
you'll  be  'avin'  the  nightmare  'ere  in  this  blessed  Regent's 
Park  if  you  don't  mind." 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  235 

The  obese,  bottle-nosed  individual  thus  rudely  aroused 
from  his  slumbers,  shook  himself  up  and  replied,  in  gruff 
tones,  "Your  imper'ance  is  surprisin',  Thomas;  I  never 
was  wider  awake  in  my  life.  Every  day  I  have  another 
investigation  of  your  imper'ant  insurance;  I  won't  bear 
it  much  longer  ! ' ' 

At  this  juncture,  the  governess  and  her  charge  were 
seen  approaching  the  carriage,  accompanied  by  Tyrrell. 
After  they  were  seated,  he  lingered  for  a  moment  chatting 
with  Valerie,  with  whom  he  was  a  prime  favorite.  He  never 
tried  to  make  her  sit  on  his  knee,  or  teased  her  to  kiss 
him,  or  pulled  her  long  locks  and  then  looked  away,  as 
the  other  gentlemen  did  constantly;  "he  just  treats  me 
as  if  I  was  a  grown-up  young  lady,  and  not  like  a  doll  or 
a  poodle,"  exclaimed  Valerie,  when  asked  why  she  was  so 
fond  of  Colonel  Tyrrell,  and  so  still  and  silent  with  all 
the  other  loungers  in  her  mamma's  drawing-rooms. 

Just  before  the  horses  started,  with  their  heads  turned 
towards  home,  Percival  dropped  Valerie's  little  gloved 
hand  rather  abruptly,  and  said  rapidly  to  Anne, — 

"Can  you  not  get  a  holiday — say  Thursday — all  day, 
from  the  rising  of  the  sun  to  the  setting  of  the  same?  I 
want  you  to  go  with  me  on  the  river,  and  to  the  Royal 
Academy,  and,  you  need  an  outing,  and  so  do  I." 

Anne  fluttered  with  delight  and  dread,  lest  she  might 
be  obliged  to  refuse.      "  I  will  try,"  she  said. 

And  he  answered,  witli  a  beaming  gladness  in  his  violet 
eyes,  "I  shall  come  for  you,  then,  on  Thursday,  before 
the  dew  is  off  the  grass.  Surely  they  cannot  refuse  you 
one  day  in  the  twelvemonth." 

"  I  will  ir)',''  she  repeated,  and  then  they  drove  away, 
and  left  him  standing  with  raised  hat  under  the  shadow 
of  the  trees. 

"I  am  so  glad,  darling  Miss  Ogilvie  !"   whispered  Va- 


236  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

lerie,  laying  her  cheek  against  Anne's  shoulder.     "You 
shall  go,  and  have  a  whole,  long  day  to  yourself." 

Anne  bent  and  kissed  her  silently  ;  her  heart  was  full  of 
singing-birds,  and  her  eyes  with  the  tears  of  a  great  delight. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

"Certainly,  Miss  Ogilvie,  I  can  see  no  reason  why 
you  should  not  avail  yourself  of  his  invitation,  if  you  are 
engaged  to  be  married  to  this  eccentric  Colonel  Tyrrell ; 
otherwise,  you  are,  I  am  sure,  aware  of  the  impropriety 
of  going  about  with  a  young  unmarried  man  without  a 
chaperon.  I  imagine  there  a?-e  governesses  who  could 
do  this  sort  of  thing  without  criticism  ;  but  you  are  far  too 
striking-looking  to  pass  without  remark.  And  really," 
(bridling  a  little),  "I  should  not  feel  as  if  I  could  reconcile 
it  to  my  conscience  to  leave  Valerie  in  the  charge  of  a 
person  who  could  subject  herself  to  imi)ertinent  observa- 
tion." This  peroration  concluded  the  lengthy  argument 
pro  and  con, — the  projected  holiday. 

The  "cons"  had  it,  and  there  remained  only  a  bow  of 
acquiescence  on  Anne's  part,  and  her  ladyship  sat  alone 
sipping  her  matutinal  chocolate  with  the  self-satisfied  air 
of  one  who  has  done  her  duty  manfully.  (I  am  doubtful 
about  the  sex  of  that  last  word.  I  fancy  a  man  would 
have  looked  at  the  monstrous  proposition  with  a  more 
lenient  eye,  and  from  a  larger  point  of  view.) 

That  evening,  Percival  Tyrrell,  enjoying  his  after-dinner 
cigar  in  his  rooms  at  the  Albany,  and  dwelling  with  a 
novel  pleasure  upon  the  prospect  of  a  long  day  of  summer- 
idling  under  the  trees  at  Hampton  Court,  or  on  the  Thames 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  237 

in  a  cockle-shell  a  deux,  or  on  the  greensward  at  Rich- 
mond, with  the  handsomest  and  most  intelligent  woman 
he  knew,  received  the  following  extinguisher  on  his  rosy 
anticipations: 

"Dear  Colonel  Tyrrell, — Lady  d'Hauteville  has 
vetoed  my  holiday.  I  do  not  think  she  knows  how  great 
a  disappointment  it  is  to  me. 

"Please  accept  my  grateful  thanks  for  this  and  all  the 
many  kindnesses  you  have  shown  me. 

"Yours  very  truly, 

"Anne." 

"Oh,  the  narrowness  of  these  puppets  in  buckram!" 
sneered  Tyrrell,  as  he  drew  his  letter-case  towards  him. 

It  was  then  ten  o'clock.  How  many  hours  he  sat  there 
with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands  and  his  elbows  on  the 
table,  his  portfolio  open,  and  the  pen  ready  to  his  hand, 
he  never  knew ;  but  when  he  rose  at  last,  he  was  cramped 
and  stiff,  and  very  cold  and  pale,  and  a  letter  was  lying 
before  him  folded,  addressed,  and  sealed. 

Percival  Tyrrell  had  spent  those  hours  in  closely  ques- 
tioning his  heart  and  conscience.  For  many  weeks  past 
he  had  been  disturbed  by  the  conflict  which  had  been 
waged  between  his  feelings  and  the  skeptical  opinions, 
which  had  become  almost  fixed  convictions,  in  regard  to 
the  truth  and  steadfastness  of  woman's  nature.  That  this 
high-spirited  Irish  girl  attracted  him  irresistibly  by  her 
beauty  and  intellectual  capabilities  was  not  enough  ;  other 
women  had  won  so  much  from  him,  but  no  more.  Was 
there  heart  underlying  these  surface-gifts?  Heart,  pure 
and  true  and  faithful, — Thekla's  heart  in  foct, — and  an 
honest  integrity,  which  would  never  be  shaken  by  circum- 
stance, time,  or  temptation  ?  And  then  :  if,  after  all,  this 
jewel  "more  precious  than  rubies"  existed,  does  he  love 


238  THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

her  as  she  would  deserve,  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other 
fancy  or  desire? 

Out  of  the  shadows  of  the  past  there  steals  the  outline 
of  a  head, — a  fair  girl's  head, — with  ripples  of  golden  hair 
and  dewy  violets  of  eyes,  and  the  guileless  mouth  of  a 
cherub;  a  face,  one  would  say,  of  an  impersonation  of 
Spring,  or  of  the  dawn  of  the  morning,  so  pure  and  deli- 
cate and  fresh  it  looked  in  its  child-like  innocence  and 
beauty.  And  Tyrrell,  with  closed  eyes,  gazed  inwardly 
at  its  loveliness,  as  he  would  have  looked  at  a  "  bit"  of 
Greuze  hung  up  against  the  background  of  his  memory; 
seeing  its  exquisite  form  and  coloring,  and  feeling  to  his 
heart's  core  that  they  were  but  canvas  and  paint  after  all. 

For  that  angel  face  had  beguiled  him  years  ago,  and 
when  he  had  looked  beyond  the  fair  exterior,  deep  down 
into  the  heart,  and  seen  the  rottenness  within,  his  whole 
nature  had  received  a  shock  which  left  it  paralyzed  for 
nearly  fifteen  years;  and  now,  when  he  had  become  almost 
reconciled  to  a  life  free  from  the  joys  and  torments  of 
love,  behold  the  electric  touch  has  reanimated  his  sapless 
heart-fibres,  and  a  new,  strange  life  pours  into  them  its 
nourishing  strength.  All  night  he  sat  with  the  pale  ghost 
of  his  past  love  on  one  hand,  dim  and  shadowy,  and  the 
living,  glowing  presentment  on  the  other  of  the  woman 
whose  touch  had  stirred  up  the  smouldering  embers  ofhis 
heart  into  a  blaze  in  which  were  fast  disappearing  all  the 
prejudices,  resolutions,  fears,  and  doubts  which  had  stood 
as  sentinels  at  the  outposts  during  all  those  years. 

The  letter  ran  tluis: 

'■  The  Albany,  June  25. 
"  My  dear  Miss  Ogilvie, — The  Countess  d'Hauteville's 
decision,  of  which  you  have  informed  me  in  relation  to 
our  projected  holiday,  has  only  confirmed  my  impression 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


239 


of  her  ladyship's  excellent  taste  and  savoir-vivre.     Pardon 
my  audacity  in  thoughtlessly  having  made  the  proposition, 
and  accord  me,  with  her  ladyship's  permission,  the  honor 
of  an  interview  to-morrow  afternoon. 
"  My  servant  will  await  your  answer. 
"  Very  truly  yours, 

' '  Percy  Tyrrell.  ' ' 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

"  I  PRESUME,"  Anne  was  saying,  in  a  constrained  voice, 
as  she  tendered  the  precious  little  note  reluctantly  towards 
the  countess,  who  (with  an  absence  of  delicacy  perfectly 
justifiable  towards  a  dependent),  had  requested  permission 
to  read  it,  "your  ladyship  will  not  object  to  my  receiv- 
ing Colonel  Tyrrell, — the  man  is  waiting  for  an  answer." 

"A  very  proper  note,"  deliberately  i>ronounced  the 
countess,  folding  it  leisurely;  "  for  you  perceive,  my  dear 
Miss  Ogilvie,  Colonel  Tyrrell  acknowledges  the  justice 
of  my  disapproval." 

"  Yes  ;  your  ladyship  will  not  forbid  me  to  receive  him, 
I  trust?"   ventured  Anne  once  more. 

The  countess  looked  pensive.  "  If  he  means  marriage," 
she  said,  slowly  (Anne  writhed),  "  why  does  he  not  come 
and  talk  with  me  about  it?  I  am  the  proper  person, — or 
the  earl.  But  I  fear,  I  very  much  fear,  that  such  are  not 
his  intentions." 

"Madam,"  began  Anne,  proudly,  "the  man  is  waiting; 
will  your  ladyship  be  good  enough  to  reply  to  this  note?" 

"Certainly  not,"  answered  the  countess,  flushing 
slightly.  "  Colonel  Tyrrell  has  not  shown  the  good  taste 
which  I  supposed  he  possessed,  in  addressing  his  note  to 


240 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


you.  You  alone  can  reply  to  it ;  but  first  let  me  warn 
you.  As  a  woman  of  the  world,  I  tell  you  that  man  does 
not  mean  to  marry  you ;  and  one  cannot  be  too  careful, 
you  understand  ;  put  nothing  on  paper  to  commit  your- 
self. I  have  no  objection  to  one  interview — oJie,  remem- 
ber— in  your  own  parlor.  Cecile  may  be  present,  if  you. 
prefer  it." 

"  Thanks,"  replied  Anne;  "■  there  is  no  necessity;  gov- 
ernesses can  dispense  with  such  rigid  etiquette.  I  require 
no  chaperon  for  a  half-hour's  interview." 

"You  are  very  self-reliant,  Miss  Ogilvie,  too  much  so 
for  your  years ;  but  I  have  warned  you  sufficiently,  and 
you  are  not  devoid  of  good  sense.  Colonel  Tyrrell  is  a 
man  of  fortune  and  good  family ;  he  can  choose  a  bride 
among  the  best  people  I  know.  Do  not  allow  his  pity  for 
your  unprotected  situation  to  lead  to  any  folly  on  his  part 
or  your  own.     You  may  go  and  write  your  note  now." 

The  countess  languidly  closed  the  straw-colored  fringed 
lids  of  her  pale-blue  eyes,  or  she  would  have  been  startled 
by  the  expression  flashing  from  those  blazing  sapphires  in 
Anne's  face  and  the  scarlet  flush  on  her  cheeks  as  she 
moved  towards  the  door.  She  had  only  time  to  write 
hurriedly  on  her  card  in  pencil,  "  Come  at  four  o'clock," 
and  inclose  it  in  an  envelope,  before  the  flood-gates  of 
her  tears  broke  down,  and  she  spent  her  passion  in  bitter 
weeping. 

Surely  this  was  but  the  wraith  of  the  beautiful,  sparkling 
woman,  Tyrrell  had  closed  the  carriage-door  upon  but 
yesterday ;  this  cold,  proud,  pale  creature,  looking  so  tall 
in  her  sweeping  black  silk,  and  the  crown  of  hair  encir- 
cling her  perfect  head.  Why  are  her  eyes  so  heavy  and 
her  cheeks  so  white,  and  the  hand  which  lies  in  his,  a 
moment,  so  limp  and  chill? 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


241 


And  yet  never  had  she  looked  so  attractive.  There  was 
a  charm  in  that  statuesque  repose,  in  that  sad  droop  of 
the  red  lips,  in  that  tearful  haze  over  the  blue  ej'es,  which 
affected  Tyrrell  more  powerfully  than  all  the  rose-blushes 
and  dimples  of  his  previous  acquaintance  with  that  elo- 
quent face. 

All  that  he  had  intended  to  say  to  her  vanished  out  of 
nis  mind,  and  without  preliminary  he  began,  abruptly, — 
"  Miss  Ogilvie,  I  have  come  to  ask  you  why  you  were 
prohibited  from  accepting  my  invitation," 

"Ah,  surely,"  she  replied,  with  a  weary  little  smile, 
"that  need  not  all  begone  over  again,  need  it?"  He 
bent  his  head,  and  she  went  on  :  "I  am  only  a  governess, 
Colonel  Tyrrell,  who  teaches  the  rudiments  of  the  French 
and  English  languages  at  so  many  pounds  per  annum ; 
something  a  little  above  the  lady's  maid,  and  a  trifle  be- 
neath the  housekeeper;  a  well-treated,  comfortably-lodged 
hireling,  but  still,  a  hireling.  Consequently,  society  does 
not  provide  for  such  as  me  a  chaperon,  and  should  I 
venture  into  the  light  of  day  without  one  in  your  escort, 
society  condemns  me;  that  is  all." 

"  But  do  you  look  forward  to  a  whole,  long  life  of 
French  verbs  and  black-boards?"  he  asked,  with  a  smile. 
"Is  there  no  possible  escape  from  such  a  ceaseless  grind 
as  this?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied  :  "  I  am  laying  up  savings.  Do 
you  know  what  that  means?  It  means  a  tiny  house,  some 
day,  in  a  neat  English  village,  furnished  after  my  own 
heart  ]  plenty  of  trees  and  flowers  outside,  plenty  of  books 
and  music  within,  and,  if  God  has  spared  my  poor  brother" 
(a  tear  trembled  in  her  voice),  "there  will  reside  a  con- 
tented old  maid  and  her  gouty  brother  (for  Dick  had 
twinges  at  twenty-five,  and  I  feci  sure  will  be  one  trouble 
to  keep  me  alive),  and  I  shall " 

L  21 


242 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


''In  short,"  interrupted  Percival,  "you  will  exchange 
one  slavery  for  another  !  Anne  !  you  shall  live  no  such 
narrow,  sordid  life  !  You  shall  come  into  my  lonely  heart, 
and  let  me  shelter  you  from  all  the  trials  in  store  for  you; 
Dick's  gout  not  the  least,"  he  added,  smiling  a  little. 
"But,  Anne,  you  are  weeping!  Why  is  this?  have  I  so 
grieved  you  ?" 

Anne  sat  with  bowed  head,  her  whole  figure  averted, 
while  sobs  shook  her  with  uncontrollable  emotion.  Her 
nerves  had  been  strung  up  to  their  last  capacity  of  tension 
by  the  warning  words  of  the  countess,  which  found  but  too 
sure  an  echo  in  her  proud  heart.  The  sudden  revulsion  of 
feeling  tried  her  too  severely;  she  could  not  reason  or 
judge,  she  could  only  feel,  and  she  felt  that  it  was  as  the 
countess  had  predicted, — this  man  pitied  her  !  She  strove 
hard  to  control  herself,  passed  her  handkerchief  over  her 
face,  and,  rising,  stood  before  him,  with  her  head  slightly 
bent. 

"  Do  you  not  see  that  you  grieve  me.  Colonel  Tyrrell? 
You  must  not  mistake  me;  I  am  very  happy  here ;  they 
are  kind  to  me,  and  I  love  Valerie  dearly.  I  have  no  wish 
to  leave  the>n,^'  she  concluded. 

A  great  fear  shot  through  Tyrrell's  heart;  could  it  be 
that  this  girl  had  not  learned  to  love  him  as  he  had  sup- 
posed ?  True,  she  had  never  in  words,  scarcely  in  looks, 
given  him  any  assurance  that  he  was  more  to  her  than 
another, — and  there  might  be  another, — she  was  so  much 
admired  !  Had  his  self-conceit  deceived  him,  and  was 
he  again  to  blindly  offer  his  hi  art  a  sacrifice  of  no  avail? 
Were  they  all  alike,  these  beautiful,  treacherous  fiends, 
who  steal  men's  souls  to  make  sport  of  and  desolate  their 
lives  for  evermore?  His  voice  was  very  cold  and  his 
face  stern,  as  he  said,  gently,  "  There  is  no  need  for  dis- 
tress ;  I a7n  going.    I  have  ma  Ic  a  mistake;  you  will  for- 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  243 

give  me?"  He  stood  quite  still  a  moment  devouring  her 
with  liis  eyes;  her  head  drooped  lower;  she  raised  her 
hand  instinctively  as  though  to  ward  off  a  blow;  had  she 
been  turned  to  stone,  all  power  of  speech  or  volition 
could  not  have  been  more  utterly  denied  her. 

Pride,  delicacy,  a  girl's  shrinking  from  a  first  avowal, 
each  and  all  paralyzed  her  tongue,  her  movements,  almost 
her  thoughts.  The  grace  of  her  attitude  appealed  even 
at  that  moment  to  Tyrrell's  keen  aesthetic  sense ;  he  felt 
he  must  begone,  or  in  an  instant  he  would  gather  her  to  his 
heart.  He  seized  her  uplifted  hand  and  pressed  his  lips 
upon  it,  almost  crushing  the  slight  fingers  in  his  frenzied 
clasp,  turned, — the  door  opened  and  swung  shut, — he  w^as 
gone ! 

It  was  only  after  tlie  closing  of  the  door  had  sounded 
the  knell  of  departing  happiness  for  her,  that  Anne  started 
from  her  trance,  and  the  piteous  cry  burst  from  her  lips, 
whilst  her  arms  stretched  out  to  emptiness,  *'  Oh,  Tyrrell ! 
Tyrrell !  come  back  to  me  !"  But  the  ^\\k.Q\\  portih-es  in 
that  house  stifled  all  unseemly  moans,  and  Tyrrell  was 
striding  along  with  a  curse  in  his  heart  and  a  set  anger  in 
his  face  at  the  inconceivable  folly  which  had  so  nearly 
betrayed  him  for  the  second  time. 

As  Anne  stole  along  the  corridor  leading  to  the  school- 
room an  hour  or  two  later,  she  encountered  the  countess 
and  Valerie,  who  had  just  returned  from  driving.  Tlie 
countess  could  not  resist  commenting  upon  the  swollen 
eyelids  and  pale  face  Anne  tried  to  hide,  by  the  usual,  "  I 
told  you  so.  Miss  Ogilvie.  I  was  quite  certain  you  were 
needlessly  exposing  yourself  to  humiliation.  Even  these 
Americans,  when  they  are  well-born  and  ricji,  are  not. 
willing  to  sacrifice  themselves  to  their  democratic  ideas, 
you  see.    Ah,  you  will  lake  my  advice  next  time,  I  fancy." 

Anne  drew  herself  up  liaugluily  :  "  Your  ladyship  must 


244 


THE   MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 


pardon  me;  I  decline  to  discuss  this  subject  further." 
And  she  glided  by,  leaving  the  countess  stunned  by  her 
audacity. 

"That  girl  will  certainly  come  to  harm,"  she  mentally 
ejaculated,  moving  towards  her  own  apartments ;  "  such 
pride  as  hers  must  have  a  fall." 

Little  Valerie  was  very  tender  to  her  "dear  Miss  Ogil- 
vie"  that  evening.  She  put  the  shades  over  the  lights, 
and  poured  out  the  tea,  and  spread  the  thin  bread  and 
butter  herself,  waiting  upon  Anne  Avith  a  loving  assiduity 
which  was  balm  to  her  sore  heart. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 


But  when  night  came,  Anne  wrestled,  in  the  lonely 
darkness,  impotently  with  her  anguish,  for  she  knew  as 
surely  as  if  she  had  read  Tyrrell's  heart  and  the  litter 
secret  of  his  past,  which  had  made  him  so  intolerant 
of  doubt  or  hesitation,  that  the  cup  of  joy  which  had  been 
held  to  her  lips  for  one  sweet  moment  would  never  touch 
them  again.  She  knew  the  character  of  the  man  she 
loved  as  well,  perhaps,  as  it  is  ever  given  to  woman  to 
decipher  the  mystic  lines  of  a  man's  nature,  and  she  felt 
that  he  had  not  lightly  spoken,  nor  lightly  resented,  her 
apparent  indifference  to  his  words.  And  still,  mingled  with 
her  grief  was  a  spark  of  anger,  that  he  should  have  been  so 
harsh,  so  precipitate.  Surely  he  must  have  known  that 
her  tears  were  tears  of  joy,  restrained  only  by  the  doubt 
which  was  natural  to  one  for  whom  life  had  few  such  bliss- 
ful surprises.  "Ah,  does  he  not  regret?"  she  murmured, 
when  the  morning  came  with  its  cheerful  sunshine.    "Now 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  245 

that  a  night  has  passed  away,  and  he  has  had  time  to 
think,  does  he  not  know  how  it  was  that  I  could  neither 
speak  nor  stir?"     Her  doubts  were  soon  dispelled. 

Before  mid-day,  Toto,  a  bright  mulatto  boy  who  accom- 
panied Tyrrell  in  his  travels  as  valet  (having  proved  his 
fidelity  and  worth  incontestably  as  his  servant  throughout 
the  war,  showing  an  absorbing  devotion  to  his  master 
which  is  often  met  with  in  his  affectionate  race),  brought 
and  delivered  into  Anne's  hand  a  letter  from  Percival 
Tyrrell. 

Anne  smiled  sadly  upon  the  boy,  whose  appearance  had 
so  often  been  the  harbinger  of  good  news  to  her,  as  she 
took  the  missive  from  his  hand,  and  then  bidding  him 
await  her  summons  in  the  servants'  hall,  she  carried  it 
away  with  her  into  her  bedroom,  where,  after  locking 
the  door,  she  threw  herself  on  her  knees  beside  her  bed, 
and  burying  her  face  on  its  sealed  pages,  she  prayed  that 
the  sorrow  which  they  held  in  store  for  her  might  be  pa- 
tiently borne.  For  a  presentiment  held  her  heart  from 
hope  and  its  whisperings ;  the  letter  was  wet  and  crum- 
pled before  she  opened  it ;  woman-like,  she  wasted  tears 
on  an  uncertainty,  and  spent  in  suspense  moments  that 
might  have  been  employed  in  allaying  every  doubt. 

At  last  she  broke  the  seal  ! 

"I  send  Toto,  my  only  faithful  adherent  (who  lays 
aside  his  banjo  with  alacrity  at  my  bidding,  for  I  believe 
he  is  weak  enough  to  love  me),  with  this  letter,  which  must 
bear  to  you  the  burden  of  my  farewell. 

"With  my  orders  to  leave  it  only  in  your  own  hands 
the  boy  will  attain  to  the  happiness  of  seeing  you  ! 

"The  sight  of  you  in  the  crisp  freshness  of  your  morn- 
ing toilette  will  jewel  this  day  for — him,  an  1  you  will  also 
speak — to  him  !  (I  have  observed  in  him  a  keen  sense 
of  the  beautiful,  and  his  musical  ear  is  wonderful.) 

25* 


246  THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 

"And  this  day,  in  another  but  not  less  heroic  fashion, 
will  be  always  marked  for  Toto's  master. 

"  For  he  bids  you  farewell  to-day  ! 

"  'Tis  thus  that  Toto  gains  a  smile  from  you,  and  so, 
there  appears  to  be  no  exception  to  the  rule  that  in  all 
that  you  do,  joy  must  come  to  somebody  ! 

"Adieu  !     Toto  and  I  withdraw  from  before  you  ! 

"  In  the  cloudy  haze  of  your  sublime  indifference,  can 
you  discern  which  is  Toto  and  which  is — I? 

"Anne,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  mad  !  When  I  com- 
menced this  letter  the  pride  which  your  own  soul  has  ere 
this  approved,  upheld  me,  and  with  it  a  longing  for  the 
peace  which  after  fierce  warfare  comes  to  men  when,  life 
ebbing,  they  give  themselves  over  to  death  without  a 
groan  ;  but,  it  is  with  me  now  even  as  when  I  am  beside 
you  (this  talking  with  you  on  paper  brings  you  so  near 
to  me),  and  I  lose  that  protecting  sense  of  antagonism 
which  secures  one's  coolness  at  the  least ! 

"  I  am  quite  undone  under  the  influence  of  your  sur- 
rounding presence.  I  can  see  you  before  me ;  I  can 
smell  the  tea-rose  in  your  breast.  ]\Iy  dream  of  peace 
and  my  pride  have  vanished  !  Anne,  I  love  you  !  I  love 
you  ! 

"You  have  done  so  much  for  me :  you  have  rekindled 
faith  in  woman — trusting  love,  implicit  confidence — in  a 
heart  which  was  arid  as  the  desert  1 

"  Was  it  to  slay  them  all  again  with  your  tender,  white 
hand  ?  .   .   . 

"  We  parted  abruptly  twelve  hours  since.  I  have  dwelt 
upon  your  look  then,  your  pallor,  your  reserved  manner, 
your  pensive  grace  !  I  cannot  forget  the  drooped  curve 
of  your  unkindly  sweet  lips,  the  veiled  sadness  of  your 
love-denying  eyes,  the  s'.adowof  a  grief  which  /was  not 
to  know,  in  words,  paling  the  roses  in  your  cheek. 


THE  MILLS    OF   THE    GODS.  247 

"But  you  judged  me  correctly,  Anne.  I  was  not  so 
obtuse  that  I  could  not  read  those  eloquent  signs. 

"(In  the  amazing  system  to  which  we  poor  mortals 
are  bound,  why  should  I  not  share  the  common  intelli- 
gence which  reads  inconsistencies  clearly,  and  which 
awards  the  same  weight  precisely  to  a  woman's  smile  or 
frown  ?) 

"But  I  will  not  pain  you  by  bitter  words;  they  shall 
lie  quiet  in  my  empty  heart  and  disturb  you  no  more. 
For  I  have  not  forgotten  the  pale,  tearful  face  which, 
while  it  told  me  that  you  had  rightly  construed  my 
request  for  an  interview,  told  me  also  the  pain  which  it 
caused  your  kind  heart  to  wound  me  by  refusing  the  gift 
I  sought. 

"The  cold,  .proud  reserve  with  which  you  armed  your- 
self against  me  was  not  needed,  Anne ;  your  averted 
head,  your  hand  raised  as  if  to  ward  off  my  words,  were 
expressive  enough  of  your  refusal  to  hear  me.  And 
then,  that  bitter  setting  forth,  of  your  position,  to  warn 
me  from  approaching  nearer ;  your  tears,  your  altered 
voice,  all,  all  are  written  on  my  heart,  else  I  should  not 
find  strength  to  say  — farewell ! 

* '  Percival  Tvrrell.  ' ' 

The  ecstasy  in  Anne's  heart  shone  out  in  every  feature 
as  she  read  the  concluding  lines  of  this  letter.  Pressing 
it  to  her  lips,  she  seized  a  sheet  of  paper,  without  a  mo- 
ment's delay,  and  wrote  hastily  thereon  : 

"  And  you  called  me  cold  !    God  knows 
Underneath  the  winter  snows 
Tiie  invisible  hearts  of  flowers  grow  ripe  for  blossoming!" 

And,  inclosing  it  in  an  envelope,  with  the  most  fragrant 
of  tea-rose-buds  embalming  it,  she  scaled  it,  and  rang  her 


248  THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

bell.  "Send  the  boy  who  brought  me  a  letter,"  she 
commanded,  in  ringing  tones,  with  the  air  of  an  empress 
and  the  smile  of  a  child.  A  moment  later  Toto  entered. 
"Toto,"  she  said, — and  the  lad  thought  there  was  music 
in  those  two  syllables, — "  you  will  give  this  letter  to  your 

master  as  soon  as  possible,  and •   Well!   what  is  it?" 

His  expression  had  become  suddenly  downcast. 

"  Massa  Colonel  Tyrrell  has  gone!  I  am  so  sorry;  it 
will  be  too  late  to  catch  him  at  the  train."  Glancing  at 
the  clock. 

"Gone!"  Anne  cried,  faintly, — "gone!     Where?" 

"  To  Liverpool.  He  was  took  sudden  with  a  wish  to 
go  back  to  America,  and  I  am  to  join  him  with  his  dogs 
and  luggage  to-night.  Miissa  Colonel  Tyrrell  telegraphed 
for  our  passage  yesterday  evenin'.  We  sail  in  the  '  Russia' 
to-morrow." 

Anne  still  held  her  letter  ;  an  ashy  grayness  spread  over 
all  the  roseate  tinting  of  her  face.  She  crushed  the  en- 
velope in  her  hand, — the  rose-bud  died  silently, — and 
then  she  said,  without  a  quiver  in  her  voice,  "Very 
well,  Toto,  there  is  no  answer;  and," — she  stretched  out 
a  slim  white  hand  suddenly,  — "  good-by,  Toto!  May 
your  voyage  be  safe  and  pleasant!"  And  then  bent  her 
head  in  token  of  dismissal,  while  a  smile,  more  sad  than 
tears,  rested  on  her  lips. 

Such  a  smile  as  that  which  curved  the  tender  mouth  of 
the  Lady  Jane  Grey  as  she  bade  farewell  to  her  weeping 
maids  of  honor  before  she  left  the  Tower  to  ascend  the 
scaffold.  Toto  went  out  with  his  head  drooping,  and  his 
melancholy,  big,  brown  eyes  swimming  in  tears. 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


249 


CHAPTER     XXIII. 

Fashionable  London  was  putting  itself  in  kid  gloves, 
— 7'ose-tendre  and  crcme-pdle, — and  that  bewitching  siren, 
Patti,  caroling  like  a  thrush  to  the  ample  shoulders  and 
diamond-besprinkled  heads  of  the  nobility  and  gentry ; 
to  the  sweet  English  fcices,  and  less  pretentiously-deco- 
rated lower  social  scale  of  music-iovers, — was  packing 
"Her  Majesty's"  from  pit  to  dome,  on  a  somewhat 
oppressive  evening  in  mid-June. 

With  the  exception  of  the  Royal  box,  in  which  the  popu- 
lar and  lovely  Princess  of  Wales,  with  her  suite,  smiled 
graciously  on  the  performance,  there  were  no  other  stars 
of  greater  magnitude  in  that  aristocratic  firmament  than 
were  diffusing  their  brilliancy  from  two  boxes  almost 
directly  vis-a-vis.  One  of  these  held  the  most  beautiful 
debutante  of  the  season,  the  Lady  Florence  Ellesmere, 
duly  chaperoned  by  her  mamma,  a  wary  and  vigilant  (not 
to  say  unduly  suspicious)  matron,  with  a  ruddy  counte- 
nance, di  parure  of  priceless  emeralds,  and  an  idolatrous 
devotion  to  this  third  and  last  of  her  darlings  to  be  disposed 
of,  amounting  to  f^Uuity.  The  opposite  loge  held,  robed 
in  one  of  the  most  artistic  creations  of  Worth's  genius  (he 
does  accomplish  a  marvelously-exquisite  toilette  sometimes), 
fitly  framed  in  costly  bouquets,  and  backgrounded,  as 
usual,  by  the  faultless  simplicity  of  the  male  full  dress, — 
Pauline,  Marquise  de  Courboisie.  It  was  only  after  the 
eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  dazzling  ensemble  of  that 
picture,  with  its  appropriate  filling-in  of  fragrant  exotics, 
brilliant  light,  and  the  thrilling  nu  sic  of  Patti's  warbling, 
that  one  could  perceive,  sitting  slightly  in  the  shadow  of 
1. 


250  THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

the  curtain  (roses  whose  full-bloom  leaves  have  begun  to 
grow  slightly  yellow  must  not  be  too  prominently  placed, 
— the  shaded  light  softens  outline,  and  tells  no  tales  of 
pearl-powder),  the  sallow,  bright-eyed,  terrier-like  face 
of  the  Duchesse  de  Languedoc. 

At  last,  she  had  lured  her  restless  guest  back  to  her 
own  roof-tree,  and  had  most  sincerely  congratulated  her- 
self on  the  inspiration  which  impelled  her  to  make  of  this 
fascinating  enchantress  a  decoy-duck  to  fill  her  daughter- 
less  house,  from  morn  till  dewy  eve,  with  the  gayest,  the 
wittiest,  the  most  recherche  ineligibles  of  the  society  in 
which  her  soul  delighted.  For  although  the  duchesse  had 
"had  her  day"  in  London  circles,  time,  the  inexorable, 
had  not  passed  her  by  ;  and  from  young  and  entrancing 
she  had  passed  to  middle-aged  and  fascinating  {passee 
but  agreeable),  and  lastly,  oh  !  inevitable  conclusion  !  to 
old  and  tiresome!  Never  handsome,  but  witli  intelligent 
eyes  and  a  mobile  expression,  she,  like  De  Stael,  had 
held  in  bondage  by  her  sparkling  wit  and  personal  magnet- 
ism, and  cultivated  esprit,  men  to  whom  pink  cheeks  and 
rounded  arms  would  have  appealed  in  vain. 

Her  "petit  soupers  a  la  Regence"  were  the  crowning 
point  of  one's  aspirations  during  the  season  not  later  than 
ten  years  ago  (for  she  was  loth  to  abdicate,  and  the  aroma 
of  her  power  lingered  even  after  the  vase  was  cracked 
and  discolored  by  time);  and  at  her  table  met  only  the 
harmonious  elements  of  intellect  and  culture  and  wit. 
Title,  however  high,  yielded  precedence  to  a  diseur  de 
bon  mots ;  the  epigrammatic  style  of  her  countrymen  being 
preferred  and  encouraged;  and  dearer  to. her  heart  than 
lovers  or  kudos,  in  those  early  days  after  her  lord  duke  had 
transplanted  her  (through  official  exigencies)  to  England 
a  bride,  had  she  prized  the  little  suppers,  where  she  often 
gathered  members  from  the  famous  "King  of  Clubs" — 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  251 

Sydney  Smith,  Romilly,  Mackintosh — and  other  l>els- 
esprits  of  tlie  time,  to  give  stamina  and  the  wholesome 
bitter  to  the  "flow  of  soul,"  which  might  have  palled 
nauseatingly  without  tliem.  For  the  young  Duchesse  de 
Languedoc  counted  lovers  by  the  score,  but  she  was  wont 
to  reverse  the  decision  of  Sir  William  Temple,  who  says, 
"  The  first  ingredient  in  conversation  is  truth  ;  the  next, 
good  sense  ;  the  third,  good  humor  ;  and  the  fourth,  wit." 
The  two  last  \i€\\\g  first  in  her  consideration  ;  good  sense 
and  truth  might  be  together  at  the  bottom  of  the  well  to 
eternity,  if  they  so  willed,  undisturbed  by  her  Grace.  But, 
like  her  compatriot  of  famous  (or  infamous)  memory,  "she 
sinned  and  supped  so  delightfully.''' 

Just  on  the  outer  curve  of  ivory  shoulder — which  issued, 
whiter  by  contrast,  from  the  foamy,  rich,  old  lace  of  Pau- 
line's corsage — appeared  the  blonde,  impassive  face  of 
Dyke  Faucett,  who,  in  sleepy  voice  and  with  drooping 
eyelids,  was  taking  advantage  of  an  "aria"  into  which 
Capoul  was  throwing  his  whole  soul,  to  whisper, — 

"  I  am  going  now,  Pauline  ;  I  shall  see  you  later  at  Lady 
Emilie's.    You  will  not  stop  for  the  last  acts, — shall  you?" 

"  Ah,  surely  not  yet,"  pleaded  the  marquise,  touching  a 
spring  in  her  bracelet,  which  disclosed  a  tiny  watch  under 
the  jewels;  "  it  is  not  more  than  eleven.    Why  do  you  go?" 

She  was  not  acting  now  ;  all  the  strength  of  her  nature 
had  become  absorbed  in  this  ceaseless  struggle  to  keep 
the  only  creature  that  she  loved,  and  over  whom  her  power 
was  not  omnipotent,  docile  in  the  snare. 

"  I  must  say  two  words  to  the  gra/uf  -mere  (oh,  shades 
of  the  past  and  spirit  of  de  V Enclos  !  are  you  convulsed 
with  merriment  in  the  sulphurous  regions  of  your  just 
condemnation,  at  tliis  sobriquet  attached  to  a  kindred 
soul?),  and  then  I  shall  drop  into  the  box  en  face  to  observe 
the  effect  of  your  toilette  from  a  better  point  of  view." 


252 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 


Pauline  only  smile  1  with  her  lips, — her  heart  burned 
(Lady  Florence  looked  more  like  a  pale  pond-lily  than 
ever  this  evening,  but  she  was  unusually  lovely), — "  ^« 
plaisir,''^  she  said,  with  her  brilliant  smile  and  glance. 

^^  All  revoi)-,  cherie,^''  he  whispered.  "And  your 
Grace?"  he  asked,  with  his  winning  voice, — ''I  shall 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  at  Lady  Vivian's?" 

"  Sa?}s  doute,^^  replied  the  duchess,  with  animation, — 
Faucett  was  a  favorite  with  her  as  with  all  women, — "  the 
Vivians  boast  the  finest  chef  and  the  most  genuine  cellar 
in  town  ;  and  la  gourviandise  is  the  last  of  my  vices  I  have 
retained." 

Dyke  smiled,  and  Pauline  cried,  "And  pray  what  has 
your  Grace  done  with  all  the  rest  ?  I  should  like  to  gather 
some  of  them  up;  they  were  certainly  more  attractive 
than  other  people's  virtues." 

The  old  duchess  cackled,  and  showed  her  still  perfect 
teeth.  "Ah,  7?ngnojine,  you  do  not  need  them;  and," 
addressing  Faucett,  "you  know  your  Swift  says  that 
*  when  we  grow  virtuous  in  our  old  age,  it  is  merely 
making  a  sacrifice  to  God  of  the  devil's  leavings,'  and 
that  '  when  our  vices  quit  us,  we  flatter  ourselves  with  the 
idea  that  it  is  we  who  quit  fhnfi  /'  " 

"Your  Grace  is  in  a  moralizing  vein  to-night;  is  it  in 
consequence  of  the  dissipation  of  last  evening,  or  as  a 
preparation  for  the  banquet  of  to-night, — a  taste  of  ver- 
mouth to  give  you  an  appetite?" 

"  No,  no,"  she  replied  ;  "  I  have  never  habituated  my- 
self to  the  B.  and  S.  of  the  'next  morning;'  retribution 
never  attacks  my  digestive  organs, — a  consequence,  mon 
cher,  of  only  dining  and  supping  where  I  know  the  cuisine 
is  safe.  Tell  me,"  she  continued,  changing  the  subject 
abruptly,  as  was  her  habit,  "what  do  you  hear  from  ce 
pauvre  Paris  to-day?    Has  Proteus  presented  another  and 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


253 


more  startling  aspect?  or  are  they  taking  breath  for  a 
fresh  denouement,  these  Communists?" 

"I  imagine  the  Commune  has  breathed  its  last,"  re- 
plied Faucett;  "  the  people  are  chastised  sufficiently,  and 
are  already  hopeful  about  the  accomplishment  of  the  mil- 
liards demanded  by  Prussia  as  indemnity.  Wonderful,  their 
recuperative  power  !" 

"Wonderful  indeed,"  assented  the  duchess.  "I  see 
they  are  jesting  already  in  that  irrepressible  Mot  d'  Ordre. 
Ce  cher  Lord  Lyons  figures  as  '■un  vicux  polisson^  in  one 
of  its  articles,  through  his  benevolence  in  throwing  open 
his  hotel  to  the  Carmelite  nuns  Avhen  other  refuge  was 
denied  them." 

Dyke  laughed.  "  One  of  Rochefort's  illusions,  I  fancy  ; 
nothing  more  probable.  The  very  air  of  Paris  is  full  of 
canards;  it  is  tlie  effervescence  of  their  late  excitement. 
But  I  shall  never  get  away  unless  your  Grace  is  merciful  ; 
pray  reserve  me  a  corner  of  your  causeuse  later."  He 
brushed  with  his  moustache  her  delicate  glove  and,  without 
a  glance  at  Pauline,  disappeared. 

The  view  of  a  swan-like  throat  opposite,  curving  itself 
to  bring  the  small  ear  of  Lady  Florence  on  a  level  with 
Dyke  Faucett's  lips,  was  not  a  sufficiently  edifying  sight  to 
detain  the  occujiants  of  tlie  duchess's  box  longer  from 
dropping  in  at  a  reception  at  the  Russian  Ambassador's, 
prior  to  the  concluding  engagement  at  Lady  Vivian's. 

When  Dyke  raised  his  lorgnette  at  length  to  take  in  the 
full  glow  of  Pauline's  beauty,  there  were  only  vacant 
chairs  and  broken  sprigs  of  flowers  lying  about  in  the 
deserted  loge.  He  smiled  sarcastically  under  the  fringe 
Nature  provides  to  hide  expression,  and  resumed  his  de- 
cidedly lover-like  conversation  with  the  beautiful  girl,  who 
was  less  coy  than  confident,  and  had  long  ago  mentally 
determined  not  to  reject  the  future  heir  to  one  of  the 

22 


254 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


oldest  and  finest  estates  in  the  south  of  England.  The 
course  of  tlieir  love  ran  so  smo  thly  that  it  almost  became 
wearisome  in  its  sameness;  Dyke  drifting  down  the  stream, 
selfishly  indolent,  Lady  Florence  gliding  gently  over  the 
surface  without  any  of  those  pangs  and  tremors,  sighs  and 
blushes,  which  we  are  apt  to  consider  concomitants  of  the 
tender  passion. 

Papa  and  mamma  smiled  approval,  for  although  Dyke 
did  not  boast  a  title  (titles  had  been  laid  at  her  feet 
before  now),  he  was  in  other  respects  unexceptionable, 
and  Ellingham  Hall  and  Marsden  Park  lay  side  by 
side,  and  the  latter  belonged  to  Lady  Florence.  "They 
would  form  a  very  pretty  property  together,"  mused  the 
old  earl,  "and  Faucett  is  a  man  of  integrity  and  prin- 
ciple,— a  sterling  good  fellow  ;"  and  he  was  eager  to  add, 
"God  bless  you,  my  children!"  and  have  the  matri- 
monial noose  securely  drawn  about  them.  But  Dyke 
had  not  yet  breathed  the  irrevocable  words ;  there  had 
not  been  the  faintest  allusion  to  settlements  or  orange- 
blossoms.  Still,  the  understanding  between  them  all  was 
clear  and  well  defined,  and,  with  a  plunge,  he  meant  to 
take  the  final  leap  that  night.  For  he  felt  that  he  could 
no  longer  stand  off,  dallying  witli  her  prospects  and  his 
own  ;  other  suitors  had  dropped  away,  one  by  one,  yield- 
ing him  place,  and  papa's  affability  was  overshadowed  of 
late  by  a  surprised  coolness;  each  time  they  met  now  the 
tall,  slender  figure  of  Florence's  father  assumed  more  and 
more  the  appearance  of  an  exclamation  point  of  wonder 
at  this  unnecessary  and  very  embarrassing  delay. 

That  Dora  flitted  like  a  phantom  between  Dyke  Faucett 
and  the  fulfillment  of  his  ambitions,  cannot  be  denied  ; 
but  after  he  had  recalled  the  fact  related  to  him  by  his 
concierge,  on  the  day  before  he  left  Paris,  of  Dora's  acci- 
dent (that  trifling  incident  when  she  was  no  doubt  tram- 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  255 

pled  to  death  under  tlie  feet  of  a  French  mob),  he 
reasoned  logically,  and  with  a  sense  of  relief,  that  had  she 
not  died  then,  she  could  certainly  not  have  left  Paris,  and 
therefore  as  certainly  had  not  survived  the  siege.  As  for 
her  father, — old,  infirm,  and  idolizing  his  daughter,— it 
was  most  unlikely  that  he  had  outlived  her  loss.  And 
golden-haired  little  Marian?  But  he  would  not  think  of 
her ;  it  was  the  one  thought  on  earth  which  could  pierce 
through  the  crust  of  selfishness  which  had  hardened  on 
this  man's  heart  and  draw  blood.  He  put  it  resolutely 
away  from  him,  and  began  of  the  "  funeral-baked  meats" 
of  poor  Dora's  memory  "to  coldly  furnish  forth  the 
marriage-tables  !" 

It  was  with  ungirlish  self-possession  and  without  a 
fluttered  eyelash,  that  the  Lady  Florence  murmured,  as 
Dyke  dexterously  packed  her  mamma  and  herself,  with  their 
voluminous  drapery,  into  tlie  brougliam,  after  the  fourth 
act  had  hinted  with  the  fall  of  the  curtain  that  the  ultra- 
fashionables  might  now  retire  to  another  entertainment, 
"  I  shall  be  at  home  at  two  o'clock,  to  you  alone, 
to-morrow;"  in  reply  to  his  request  for  a /<?/^-a-/<?/^,  un- 
disturbed. 

"Thanks,"  he  replied;  "you  have  made  me  very 
happy." 

She  smiled  brightly,  and,  as  their  eyes  and  hands 
met,  they  perfectly  understood  what  that  interview  por- 
tended. They  felt  betrothed  from  that  moment,  for 
neither  doubted  what  the  result  would  be. 

"My  angel  Florence  !"  cried  delighted  mamma,  press- 
ing an  unctuous  kiss  upon  the  cold  cheek  ne.\t  her,  and 
crushing,  in  an  impulsive  embrace,  all  i\\Q.  point  iV Alcufon 
ruffles  on  the  bodice  inclosing  that  colder  heart,  "I  con- 
gratulate you;  I  am  so  happy  1" 

"Don't  be  premature,  dear  mamma,"  suggested   the 


256  THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

demoiselle.  "And  do  not  forget,  above  all  things,  that 
we  are  en  route  to  Mrs.  Somers's  last  ball  of  the  season; 
and  if  there  is  one  thing  I  prize  above  another,  it  is  lace 
which  looks  bought  for  the  dress,  and  not  crumjDled  and 
dt'fratchie.  I'm  not  off  your  hands  yet,  mamma,  so  don't 
rumple  me."   .... 

"  How  late  you  are  !"  looked  reproachfully  from  Pauline's 
soft,  dark  eyes,  as  she  stood  like  a  queen,  surrounded  by 
her  courtiers,  at  the  upper  end  of  the  ball-room  that 
night,  as  Dyke  sauntered  towards  her. 

"  I  believe  this  is  the  galop  you  have  promised  to  give 
me,"  drew  her  immediately  out  of  the  charmed  circle; 
and,  as  Faucett  never  danced,  they  soon  wandered  off 
into  a  cool  nook  in  the  flower  garden,  which  had  been 
roofed  with  canvas  and  mysteriously  illuminated  with 
Chinese  lanterns.  When  they  were  seated,  and  Pauline, 
glancing  about,  was  assured  of  their  isolation  from  the 
rest  of  the  world,  she  drew  from  her  bosom  a  letter, 
and,  leaning  towards  Dyke  so  that  the  perfumed  tresses  of 
her  hair  almost  touched  his  lips,  she  whispered,  with  a 
beaming  joy  in  her  face,  ''  Dyke,  I  may  be  free  soon  ! 
He  is  ill, — too  ill  to  remain  in  Paris,  and  has  gone  to  our 
chateau  in  Brittany.  See,  this  letter  is  from  his  physician  • 
he  urges  me  to  return  at  once  to  France,  and  says,  *  The 
excitement,  anxiety,  and  deprivations  of  the  siege  have 
undermined  his  health  so  that  recovery  is  hopeless  !' 
Pauvre  vieiix  !  I  should  be  sorry  for  him  were  he  not  my 
husband,  and — the  only  barrier  between  you,  moii  ami, 
and  myself."     Dyke  suppressed  a  groan. 

"  Read  me  the  letter,  Pauline, — all  of  it,  every  word  !" 
These  were  the  only  words  that  found  utterance  in  this 
terrible  emergency.  They  were  words  full  of  another 
significance  to  her.  She  rapidly,  and  in  glad  tones,  read 
the  death-warrant  of  the  man  who  had  loved  her  unself- 


THE  MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 


257 


ishly,  and  given  her  all  the  good  gifts  of  life  which  were 
in  his  power  to  bestow. 

By  the  time  the  letter  was  concluded,  Dyke  had  recov- 
ered from  the  shock,  and  prepared,  with  the  recklessness 
of  a  gambler,  to  play  out  the  game,  cost  what  it  might. 

"And  must  you  go  soon,  ma  mie?''''  he  asked,  tenderly. 
"  And  you  will  let  me  hear  from  you  constantly, — will  you 
not?" 

"Ah,  Dyke,  why  do  you  not  tell  me  you  are  glad? 
All  through  that  hateful  opera  this  letter  was  burning  into 
my  heart,  I  so  longed  to  tell  you  of  it,  and  now  you  do 
not  even  look  glad."  She  fixed  her  eyes  mournfully  upon 
his,  and  a  cold  chill  struck  through  her  veins.  "  Do  you 
not  love  me?"  she  burst  out,  in  passionate,  low  tones. 
"  Have  all  your  protestations  and  prayers  and  vows  been 
mere  lip-service?  and  is  it  nothing  to  you  that  soon — very 
soon,  perhaps — I  may  be  free, — free  to  acknowledge  to 
the  world  the  love  I  have  borne  so  long  in  secret?" 

What  could  he  do  but  fold  her  in  his  arms  and  hush  her 
with  words  of  endearment  ? 

Before  another  twenty-four  hours  had  measured  another 
day  Dyke  Faucett  found  himself  engaged  in  honor  (!)  to 
marry  the  Lady  Florence  Ellesmere,  as  well  as  the  Marquise 
de  Courboisie  (for  her  widowhood  loomed  forth  drearily 
certain),  with  the  additional  piquancy  of  a  possibly- 
living  wife  ! 

This  was  really  becoming  diverting;  life  was  not  such 
a  sapless  thing  after  all. 

Emilia,  in  looking  at  this  man  psychologically,  as  she 
regarded  lago  after  the  grand  denouement  filled  her  soul 
with  loathing  horror,  might  have  been  tempted  to  wish 
Heaven's  vengeance  meted  out  at  a  more  fberal  ratio 
than  "half  a  grain  a  day." 


BOOK    III. 

RETRIBUTION. 


"Vengeance  is  mine;  I  will  repay,  saith  the  Lord." 

"  La  Vengeance   est    boiteuse,   elle     vient   h   pas   lents, — mais— ^//ff 
vient /" 


CHAPTER    I. 


It  is  the  festival  of  St.  John  the  Baptist.  The  morning 
sun  streams  down  on  the  assembling  multitude,  chiefly 
of  women  and  children  (for  there  are  some  left  yet  in 
France),  as  they  file  slowly  into  the  fine  old  Abbey- 
Church,  which  is  the  pride  of  St.  Denis. 

There  is  the  yellow  glow  of  summer  in  the  atmosphere, 
and  the  sun-rays,  when  not  filtered  through  the  full-leaved 
lindens,  are  somewhat  oppressive  even  at  this  early  hour; 
whilst  the  drowsy  hum  of  myriad  insects  intoxicating 
themselves  in  fathomless  wells  of  sweetness  among  the 
honeysuckle  and  clematis,  wreathing  and  flowering  every- 
where in  the  luxuriant  prodigality  of  June,  fills  one,  even 
at  the  church-door,  with  delicious,  somnolent  suggestions, 
and  mutinous  longings  for  the  greensward  and  the  rippling 
brook,  or  the  dense-shaded  forest-haunt,  where  one  could 
offer  up  one's  devotions  in  primitive  fashion  in  a  Temple 
not  made  with  hands,  or  idle  the  hours  away  in  a  moral 
258 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


259 


paralysis,  the  result  of  the  o%^er-fullness  of  life  in  a  perfect 
summer  day. 

But,  it  is  a  holiday  of  obligation  to-day,  and  one  must 
be  happy  according  to  the  decrees  of  the  good  old  man 
in  Rome ;  therefore,  under  the  sacred  arches  where  the 
kings  of  France  lie  buried,  must  one  bend  the  knee,  and 
smother  one's  pagan  yearnings  for  nature's  altars  and  syl- 
van sacrifices.  Therefore  airy  fabrics  of  delicate  hue  com- 
pose the  toilettes  of  the  devotes,  with  a  touch  of  summer 
splendor  in  their  bright  diaphanous  effect  (surely  at  four 
miles'  distance  from  Paris  one  need  not  punish  one's  self 
with  "  <:<?  triste  deiiiV ?)  and  in  every  breast-knot,  and 
many  childish  hands,  wilts  languidly  a  festive  flower  or 
a  tiny  bouquet  of  mignonette  (that  prized  bit  of  sweetness 
so  dear  to  the  work-people  of  the  sense-fostering  nation). 

And  many  are  the  long  wax-tapers  interspersed  amid 
the  more  graceful  floral  offerings,  particularly  among  the 
sabot-shod,  high-capped  peasantry,  whose  lips  move  as 
they  furtively  finger  their  rosaries,  whilst  their  bright, 
shrewd  eyes  wander  about,  taking  note  of  everything, 
from  the  texture  of  their  neighbor's  "polonaise"  to  the 
size  and  quality  of  the  candle  which  represents  their  pet 
sin  or  most  cherished  hope. 

The  entrance  to  the  ancient  sanctuary  is  garlanded  with 
flowers  and  evergreens,  and  each  representative  of  "  our 
Blessed  Lady"  is  eblouissant  with  June  roses  and  the  fra- 
grant white  hyacinth,  to  which  flower  she  is  supposed  to 
be  partial ;  the  emblem  of  purity  and  sweetness  combined 
fitting  her  sense  of  perfection. 

For  it  is  the  Feast  of  St.  John,  and  the  war  is  over  ! 

But,  spite  of  sunshine,  flowers,  and  fragrance  (and  fresh 
toilettes),  an  unwonted  gravity  marks  the  countenances 
of  these  worshipers.  There  is  none  of  the  brisk  anima- 
tion and  lively  chatter  which  prevails  ordinarily  among  a 


26o  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

concourse  of  French  men  and  women ;  even  the  most 
coquettish-eyed  brime  among  the  girls  wears  a  sedate 
look,  which  fits  her  like  her  grandmother's  cap,  and  there 
are  stern  lines  about  the  sallow-faced  men,  and  tear-fur- 
rowed cheeks  amid  the  older  women,  which  mark  the 
shadow  cast  by  the  recent  storm,  whose  fury  had  well-nigh 
wrecked  their  land.  Paris  recuperates  rapidly,  clears 
away  blood-stains,  rouges  artistically  her  horror-paled 
cheek,  and  smiles  through  her  tears  heroically;  but 
throughout  her  environs,  and  in  the  provinces,  heads  are 
bowed  yet  in  shame  and  rage  and  grief;  for  although 
the  white  dove  of  peace  broods  over  stricken  France,  the 
wounds  it  strives  to  cover  with  outstretched  wings  are 
bleeding  inwardly  still. 

The  dim  twilight  in  those  lofty  aisles  is  heavy  with 
the  breath  of  incense,  through  which  the  consecrated 
torches  twinkle  like  stars,  while  the  "  kyrie  eleison" 
bursts  forth,  following  close  on  the  slow,  solemn  footsteps 
of  the  benediction,  swelling  in  harmonious  accord  from 
the  great  choir  above. 

The  congregation  stood  drinking  in  the  glorious  sounds, 
which  seemed  to  raise  on  their  airy  wings  these  earth- 
bound  souls  to  celestial  peace  and  rapture,  when  suddenly 
the  voices  died  away  and  a  stillness  almost  oppressive 
supervened. 

There  was  a  slight  rustle  of  expectancy,  and  many  eyes 
turned  in  the  direction  of  the  choir,  iull  of  surprise  at 
this  unusual  interruption,  when,  like  a  prolonged,  mel- 
low flute-note,  there  pierced  through  the  fragrant  twilight 
a  soprano  voice  of  superhuman  sweetness  and  sustained 
power,  filling  every  corner  of  the  sacred  edifice  with  the 
beautiful  "  Gloria,"  in  solo. 

The  people,  motionless,  held  their  breath  to  listen ; 
never,  surely,  had  such  sounds  reached  mortal  ear  before. 


THE    MILLS   OF   TILE    GODS.  261 

Was  it  child's  or  woman's  or  angel's  voice?  Ah,  it  was 
enough  to  draw  one's  soul  from  purgatory  !  Many  of  those 
listeners  trembled  and  grew  pale  with  emotion  as  the 
words  of  the  wondrous  thanksgiving  swelled  out  in  thrill- 
ing music,  while  quiet  tears  stole  down  some  hollow 
cheeks  which  had  been  rarely  dry  of  late.  And  when  the 
strains  ceased,  leaving  the  air  still  vibrating  with  melody, 
the  people,  with  a  long-drawn  breath,  wiped  their  eyes, 
and  looked  at  each  other  as  if  just  awakened  from  a 
dream. 

Near  the  entrance,  in  an  uncushioned  pew,  stood  lean- 
ing against  a  pillar,  with  crossed  arms  and  a  look  of  rapt 
delight  on  his  sun-bronzed  face,  our  ex-National  Guard, 
Dick  Ogilvie,  and  by  his  side  the  figure  of  Sister  Agnes, 
dressed  in  black,  but  wearing  no  longer  on  her  steadfast 
arm  the  badge  she  had  borne  so  nobly  through  many 
months  of  peril  and  unflagging  devotion, — the  red  cross  of 
Geneva  !  Under  its  merciful  banner,  how  many  women 
during  those  terrible  days  showed  courage,  patriotism, 
endurance  as  unflinching  as  any  that  ever  waved  the  tri- 
color in  field,  while  the  death-cry,  "  Vive  la  France  !'' 
pierced  the  din  of  battle  ! 

There  must  be  heroic  stuff  in  the  women  of  France 
which  might  cover  with  a  cloak  of  charity  a  multitude  of 
their  frivolities.  Something  heroic  and  grand  even  when 
it  trenches  upon  eccentricity ;  when  it  clothes  its  maiden 
limbs  in  armor  and  sallies  forth  to  battle  as  Jeanne 
d'Arc ;  or  when  it  slays  its  tyrants  en  deshabille,  as  Char- 
lotte Corday;  even  when  it  waxes  demoniac  in  its  wrath, 
and  shakes  threatening  fists  in  the  fatally-fair  face  of  the 
hated  Austrian,  hounding  her  on  to  death  ;  or  drags  can- 
non through  the  streets  to  the  accompaniment  of  maledic- 
tions, or  pastes  with  vindictive  leer  its  "billet  condamne," 
"  B.  P.  B."  (Jfonpour  bhiler),  on  the  doomed  sites  where 


262  THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

tlie  fiend  of  petroleum  shall  rage  in  flames.  Something 
grand  and  terrible,  though  horrible,  a  suspicion  of  the 
tigress-blood  which  shows  out  so  undeniably  in  the  deadly 
cmeiites,  the  wholesale  massacres,  which  have  dyed  with 
crimson  the  streets  of  their  fairest  cities  ! 

And  yet  this  anomalous  mystery,  this  woman  of  France, 
false,  vain,  frivolous,  cruel,  in  the  moment  of  her  coun- 
try's agony  lays  aside  velvets  and  laces,  and  goes  into  the 
hospitals,  emptying  therein  larder,  cellar,  purse,  crying  out 
to  the  last,  "No  armistice !  no  capitulation  !  We  can  suffer, 
we  can  starve,  we  can  die,  but  we  must  not  be  conquered  !" 
And  she  did  suffer  and  starve  and  die,  more  than  once, 
as  only  that  joy-loving  woman  can  die,  during  those 
months  of  carnage  and  famine  and  fire,  holding  high,  un- 
dauntedly, their  motto  "tout  est  perdu,  fors  I'honneur!" 

Agnes's  face  had  lost  the  pure  curve  of  its  outline,  but 
her  expression  of  sweet  repose  was  born  of  perfect  happi- 
ness and  sense  of  rest  after  "the  burden  and  heat"  of  a 
troublous  day;  and  over  Dick's  genial,  ruddy  counte- 
nance had  settled  a  seriousness  which  proved  that  his 
rollicking,  somewhat  reckless  nature  held  depths  which 
could  be  stirred  by  the  scenes  of  suffering  through  which 
he  had  come  forth  ennobled.  He  could  never  go  back  and 
be  the  insouciant,  devil-may-care  "  good  fellow"  of  other 
days,  when  he  had  always  been  more  or  less  inebriated  with 
that  vernal  wine  of  life  which  is  unmixed  with  the  gall 
of  later  experience;  but  if  his  smile  was  less  frequent,  it 
had  a  new  sweetness  in  it,  and  if  his  laugh  was  a  trifle  less 
ready,  it  hatl  a  truer  ring, — and  the  graceful,  careless 
bonhommic  of  old  was  not  more  charming  than  the  quiet 
dignity  which  sat  so  well  upon  him  now. 

And  Agnes  thought  him  simply  perfect,  and  idolized 
him,  after  the  manner  of  her  kind. 

As  the   last  echo  of   the   "  Gloria"   died    away  Dick 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  263 

aroused  himself,  and,  approaching  Agnes,  whispered,  "Is 
the  story  of  Orpheus  a  fable,  think  you?  Would  not  that 
voice  draw  one  up — or  down — as  it  pleased?" 

Agnes  smiled,  and  answered,  whispering  also,  "  Dora's 
voice,  like  herself,  could  only  draw  one  nearer  heaven. 
Listen  !"  For  now  flowed  forth  on  the  air  the  soul-stir- 
ring words  of  the  "Agnus  Dei,"  with  its  pathetic  appeal, 
"Dona  nobis  pacem,  pacem,  pacem  !"  piercing  every 
heart  with  its  grief-born  pathos. 

"  Sainte  mere  de  Dieu!"  whispered  one  woman  to 
another,  "this  is  no  human  voice!"  And  she  hastily 
crossed  herself  and  muttered  an  ave. 

Agnes's  eyes  filled  with  tears ;  it  seemed  to  her  that 
Dora' s  heart  was  bleeding. 

"  Have  we  an  angel  among  us,  or  one  of  the  cantatriccs 
of  the  opera?"  murmured  Madame  la  Baronne  de  St. 
Lo  to  her  son,  leaning  over  her  velvet  cushion  to  reach 
his  ear,  while  she  strove  to  pierce  with  her  lorgnon  the 
obscurity  of  the  choir  from  which  this  mysterious  voice 
issued. 

"Mais  non,  maman,"  replied  the  youth,  pale  with  ex- 
citement; "it  is  a  miracle,  but  a  human  being  is  the  in- 
strument ;  a  young  English  girl.  I  have  seen  her ;  she  is 
beautiful  as  her  voice,  with  a  face  of  marble,  and  the  eyes 
of  one  inspired,  and  a " 

"Silence,  I  pray  thee,  my  son.  This  is  not  the  place 
for  persiflage  of  this  description."  Aiul  the  baroness, 
becoming  uncomfortably  red,  fanned  herself  vehemently, 
while  she  made  a  mental  calculation  of  the  remainintr 
days  which  would  intervene  before  this  last,  only  scion  of 
her  house  should  return  to  retirement  and  study  at  St. 
Cyr,  sublimely  unconscious  that  the  subject  of  her  anxious 
meditation,  witli  eyes  monK-ntarily  lowered  from  the  choir 
(and  growing  more  unwholesome-looking  than  before, — 


264  THE   MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 

through  a  combination  of  concentrated  emotions),  was 
vowing  in  his  heart  to  escape  by  his  window  at  an  unholy 
hour,  and  spend  that  very  night  promenading  before  the 
house  which  contained  this  divinity  with  the  statue-like 
face,  and  the  golden-gleaming  eyes,  and  the  voice  which 
had  awakened  the  embryo  man  in  his  sluggish  soul. 

Dick  Ogilvie  and  Agnes  stood  a  little  apart  from  the 
outflowing  congregation  after  service,  waiting  for  Dora, 
who,  with  Marian  by  the  hand,  soon  appeared,  and  joining 
them  they  hurried  homeward,  to  escape  the  curious  gaze 
of  many  enterprising  individuals  upon  whom  her  exquisite 
voice  had  wrought  its  spell.  Turning  into  a  quiet,  parti- 
ally built-up  suburb,  lined  on  each  side  with  villa-looking 
buildings  with  the  square,  white  bit  of  information  ap^arte- 
ments  a  louer,  on  most  of  their  etages,  and  neat,  primly- 
kept,  oblong  suggestions  of  garden  in  front,  into  which 
juts  the  inevitable  balcony  with  its  creeper  in  a  perfect 
state  of  preservation,  its  three  iron  chairs  and  round  iron 
table,  they  moderated  their  pace  somewhat,  and  Dora 
threw  back  the  veil  with  which  slie  had  shrouded  herself, 
to  the  imminent  risk  of  suffocation,  on  that  mid-day  of 
June.  Agnes's  cheek  was  quite  flushed  now  from  the 
rapid  walking  and  the  heat ;  but  Dora's  was  free  from  the 
faintest  tinge  as  the  snow-drop,  while  her  eyes  looked 
preternaturally  large  and  bright  through  the  attenuation 
of  her  features.  Agnes,  glancing  at  her,  almost  trembled, 
so  fragile  and  delicate  she  had  grown,  and  so  angelic  was 
the  expression  of 

"That  peaceful  face  wherein  all  past  distress 
Had  melted  into  perfect  loveliness." 

but  into  a  loveliness  so  unearthly,  so  spiritual,  that  her 
friend's  heart  grew  faint  with  fear  at  the  thought  of  their 
coming  separation,  which  might  be  a  longer  one  than  either 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS.  265 

anticipated.  For  Agnes  and  Dick  were  to  be  married 
shortly,  and  Dora  had  steadfastly  resisted  their  entreaties 
to  accompany  them  to  England,  where  Dick  could  obtain 
a  livelihood  in  the  practice  of  his  profession  in  a  country 
town,  and  where  he  now  felt  that  he  must  make  his  home 
on  his  sister's  account. 

Dora  was  unable  to  think  of  England  without  a  shudder 
of  horror  and  grief,  not  untainted  by  self-reproach ;  for 
she  felt  now  that,  however  anxious  her  husband  should  be 
to  reclaim  her,  she  would  rather  die  than  return  to  his 
side. 

The  conviction  of  Dyke's  base  treachery  towards  herself 
had  destroyed  all  lingering  vestiges  of  love  and  respect  in 
her  heart ;  but  for  her  child's  sake  she  would  have  crushed 
down  her  aversion  and  walked  steadily  on  in  the  path 
beset  with  thorns  on  which  she  had  entered,  had  not  the 
great,  insurmountable  barrier  of  this  new  cross  which 
barred  her  with  its  mighty  power  from  following  the 
line  of  duty, — her  love  for  Ronald  Buchanan,  and  his 
great  love  for  her, — forced  her  to  turn  her  agonized  face 
away  from  a  greater  anguish  than  she  had  strength  to 
bear. 

"I  may  not  even  die,"  she  moaned  to  herself  in  the 
dark  hours,  as  she  heard  Marian's  soft  breathing  by  her 
pillow;  but  her  slight  figure  grew  more  slender,  and  her 
step  slower,  and  her  face  resembled  an  alabaster  vase 
through  which  the  lamp  of  the  soul  beamed  forth,  too 
luminously  for  earthly  uses. 

At  those  rare  times  when  Agnes  found  it  impossible 
longer  to  withliold  her  gentle  reproaches  and  warnings, 
and  tried  to  awaken  some  anxiety  for  her  state  of  health 
in  Dora,  she  would  be  answered  by  the  very  saddest  of 
sweet  smiles,  and  words  like  these  :  "  Never  fear,  Agnes  ; 
I  am  stronger  than  I  look  ;  as  long  as  Marian  lives,  God 
M  23 


266  THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 

will  not  take  me  to  himself.  Do  not  let  my  pale  face 
grieve  you,  dear ;  remember — 

"  '  I  have  watched  my  first  and  holiest  hopes  depart 
One  after  one ; 
I  have  held  the  hand  of  Death  upon  my  heart 
And  made  no  moan.' 

Why,  then,  should  you  reproach  me,  or  wonder  that  the 
laughter  has  all  died  out  of  me  forever?" 

And  Agnes  was  fain  to  be  content  and  watch  her  silently. 

As  they  approached  the  cottage  where  they  had  all  taken 
refuge  after  their  escape  from  Paris,  the  tall  figure  of 
Ronald  Buchanan  arose  from  an  easy-chair  which  he  had 
drawn  through  the  window  out  upon  the  balcony,  and  ad- 
vanced to  open  the  gate  of  the  little  garden  for  them. 
He  also  bore  the  impress  of  suffering  upon  his  frank  face, 
and  his  left  arm  was  in  splinters  and  hung  in  a  silk  scarf, 
helpless;  for  it  had  been  broken  in  two  places,  a  fortnight 
ago,  when  he  had  dashed  into  a  burning  house  to  rescue 
from  a  frightful  death  a  bed-ridden  man  and  some  helpless 
children.  He  bore  them  all  out  uninjured  in  his  strong 
arms,  and  had  just  turned  away,  blackened,  singed,  burned 
about  the  hands,  when  a  wall  fell  in  with  a  crash,  and 
part  of  the  mansard-roof  slipped  into  the  street  upon  tlie 
shrieking  spectators. 

Ronald  knew  nothing  of  what  had  happened  ;  many 
were  crushed,  many  more  frightfully  mangled,  and  he  was 
drawn  out  from  the  smoking  debris  for  dead.  But,  for- 
tunately, a  sergent  de  ville  took  the  precaution  to  ex- 
amine him  before  he  was  cast  upon  the  heap  of  bodies 
consigned  to  the  Morgue;  and  finding  signs  of  life,  dis- 
patched him  on  a  litter  to  the  hospital  of  the  English 
aml)ulance.  There  poor  Dora  had  the  melancholy  comfort 
of  nursing  him  until  .so  far  recovered  as  to  be  able  to 


THE  MILLS   OF  TILE    GODS.  267 

remove  outside  of  Paris,  of  which  they  all  were  weary 
unto  death  ;  and  in  this  quiet  retreat,  where  all  the  hideous 
sights  and  sounds  of  the  last  nine  months  could  be  at 
times  forgotten,  they  all  rested. 

Ronald  Buchanan  and  Dick  Ogilvie  had  each  com- 
municated with  their  men  of  business  in  London  as  soon 
as  the  siege  was  raised,  and  had  received  ample  remit- 
tances. 

Dora  also  had  gone  timidly  to  her  father's  banker  in 
Paris  to  draw  their  accumulated  monthly  installments  from 
America.  The  banker,  an  American  who  had  known  her 
father  well,  and  who  had  been  absent  from  Paris  during 
the  troubles,  had  just  resumed  business.  He  handed  her 
the  sum  accruing  to  her  without  demur,  and  she  went 
straightway  and  invested  the  greater  portion  of  it  in  a 
neat  trousseau  for  her  little  friend  Agnes,  leaving  barely 
a  margin  to  cover  the  rent  of  their  rooms  and  weekly 
boarding. 

The  day  following  their  arrival  at  St.  Denis,  she  offered 
her  services  as  choir-leader  in  the  Abbey-Church,  and  a 
few  days  later  sought  and  obtained  pupils,  to  whom  she 
undertook  to  give  singing  lessons  three  days  in  each  week. 
For  Dora's  was  a  staunch,  sturdy  heart, — far  stronger  to 
endure  than  the  frail  casket  which  enshrined  it. 

And  Agnes,  overwhelmed  by  so  much  loving-kindness, 
spent  days,  and  parts  of  nights,  too,  in  creating  wonders 
of  convent  needle- work  wherewith  to  clothe  little  Marian, 
who  passed  her  happy  days  frolicking  in  the  sunshine, 
without  more  thought  of  raiment  than  the  lilies  of  the 
field. 

How  blessedly  happy  would  these  five  hearts  have  been, 
had  it  not  pleased  God  to  weave  into  the  destiny  of  one 
of  them  the  dark  thread  of  evil,  which  could  not  be 
unspun  ! 


268  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

As  it  was,  both  Dick  and  Agnes  felt  it  almost  an  insult 
to  their  dear  friends  to  let  the  glory  of  their  happiness 
shine  forth.  Only  when  they  were  alone  together  did 
they  cast  aside  the  sadness  born  of  a  true  sympathy  with 
the  sore  trial,  of  which  they  both  guessed  the  general 
features. 

No  common  tie  bound  these  four  souls  together;  for 
months  had  they  struggled,  endured,  suffered,  hand-in- 
hand.  And  during  those  last  fearful  weeks  when  the 
Commune  had  ruled  like  the  Genius  of  Destruction  in 
Paris,  when  the  roaring  of  cannon,  the  whizzing  of  shells, 
the  screeching  of  the  mitrailleuses,  filled  the  heart  with 
dire  forebodings,  which  the  constant  ringing  of  bells  and 
beating  of  drums  served  only  to  heighten,  while  the  cry 
of  despair,  ^^Noiis  sommes  trahis  f^  from  the  frenzied 
National  Guards,  was  heard  from  time  to  time  through 
their  expiring  struggle,  they  had  cheered  each  other. 
For  there  was^fighting  at  Neuilly,  at  Bagneux,  at  Asnieres, 
and  the  shells  from  Versailles  scattered  death  through  the 
Champs  Elysees.  There,  under  the  trees  where  children 
had  danced  in  glee,  where  bonnes  had  coquetted,  and  fine 
ladies  peeped  from  under  their  dainty  parasols  at  the  gay 
cavaliers  and  the  dashing  equipages,  on  many  a  spring  day 
passed,  lay  now,  stark  and  stiff  in  death,  the  bodies  of 
Frenchmen,  slain  by  Frenchmen  in  fanatical  fury. 

The  Royalists  and  P'ederals  fought  like  tigers,  thirsting 
for  each  other's  blood  ;  shots  were  exchanged  from  win- 
dow to  window ;  there  were  encounters  on  the  staircases, 
on  the  roofs,  in  bath-houses, — it  was  a  wild  orgie  of 
murder. 

The  churrh<?s  were  closed,  the  cu7-es  imprisoned,  the 
convents  emptied ;  sacrilege  and  blasphemy  flourished 
in  such  a  hot-bed  of  crime.  The  Cathedral  of  Notre 
Dame  was  invaded,  the  sacred  vessels,  the  priests'  robes, 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS.  269 

the  ornaments,  handled  with  coarse  jests  and  impious 
sneers. 

The  spirit  of  Voltaire  arose  like  the  phoenix  from  the 
ashes  of  corruption,  and  the  Goddess  of  Reason,  with 
her  saturnalia  of  blood,  menaced  France  once  more. 

Buchanan,  called  upon  to  attend  a  prisoner  whose  soul 
was  nigh  escaping  through  the  bars  of  La  Roquette,  en- 
countered on  one  of  his  visits  the  reverend  Abbe , 

who  was  allowed  to  enter  the  cells  of  the  condemned  on 
presentation  of  a  passport,  which  bore  these  words, — 
"Admit  the  bearer,  who  styles  himself  the  servant  of  otie 
of  the  name  of  God  /' ' 

One  could  almost  see  Voltaire's  contemptuous  shrug,  or 
hear  his  impatient  dismissal  of  the  unanswerable  argu- 
ment of  Christ, — "I  pray  you  never  let  me  hear  that 
w««'i- name  again!"  As  Ronald  returned  the  passport 
to  the  white-haired  priest,  a  shudder  of  dread  ran  through 
him,  and  he  smelt  the  smoke  of  the  flames  already  which 
were  to  devour  this  Gomorrah.  Not  long  after,  when 
Archbishop  Darbois  was  dragged  forth  and  put  to  death 
without  cause,  who  was  surprised  ?  He  was  only  the  third 
Archbishop  of  Paris  who  died  a  violent  death  at  the 
hands  of  his  flock  ! 

Can  one  wonder  that  the  barricade  sprang  up  magically 
in  the  God-forsaken  city,  writing  the  word  riot  in  each 
street,  or  that  placards  disgraced  the  walls  calling  upon 
the  women  to  take  up  arms  "to  stimulate  the  cowards 
who  hold  back!"  For  the  same  noble  end,  no  doubt, 
women  old  and  hideous  (the  refuse  of  "La  Force"  gen- 
erally), in  rags,  and  with  red,  Phrygian  caps  on  their 
disheveled  heads,  dragged  about  the  deadly  initrai/Icitse, 
shouldered  the  musket,  hurled  forth  curses  more  vocifer- 
ously than  could  be  possible  to  man. 

In  this  horrible  chaos  the  National  Guard  went  mad. 

23* 


270 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


Disheartened  and  disgusted,  Dick  Ogilvie  unfurled  the  tri- 
color, and,  waving  it  wildly,  called  upon  his  regiment  to 
follow  him  !    They  went  over  to  a  man  to  the  Versaillais  ! 

In  those  days  Dora  and  Agnes  rarely  stirred  outside, 
fearing  to  leave  the  shelter  of  the  hospital,  where  they 
found  ple'nty  of  work  to  do. 

How  weary  they  were  sometimes  of  groans  and  moans, 
lint  and  bandages  !  How  they  longed  for  the  blue  sky 
and  the  green  turf,  and  the  sweet,  untainted  air  of  the 
forest !  And  how  many  an  hour  of  rare  rest  did  each  of 
these  friends  sacrifice  for  the  other  !  Many  a  meal,  too, 
was  divided  by  four  to  the  satisfaction  of — none,  alas  ! 

They  had  aFl  been  unwearying  in  sustaining  the  strength 
and  courage  of  Dora,  who  looked  so  terribly  fragile,  but 
they  found  that  she  could  circumvent  tlieir  tenderness  by 
a  crafty  unselfishness,  which  returned  their  kindness  in 
equal  measure.  And  now,  with  life  spared,  with  youth 
and  its  quenchless  hopes,  they  must  separate,  in  all  proba- 
bility, forever. 

They  had  talked  it  all  over  the  night  before  this  feast- 
day  of  St.  John,  and  Agnes  had  plead  her  hardest  to 
move  Dora's  heart  towards  England.  "But  it  cannot  be, 
Agnes.     I  could  walk  down  into  my  grave  before  I  could 

go  to Oh,  my  darling,  do  not  urge  me;  it  cannot 

do  good,  and  it  only  tortures  me." 

"  But,  Dora,  I  cannot  leave  you  here  alone.  Have  some 
pity  upon  me,  dear,  and  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do." 

"  I  shall  not  be  alone,  Agnes ;  I  have  Marian,  and  this 
widow  who  owns  the  house  is  friendly  and  seems  to  be  a 
good  sort  of  woman."  ("Oh,  Dora!"  sobbed  Agnes.) 
"And  you  jnusi  go  with  Captain  Ogilvie;  he  is  quite 
right  to  return  to  England  and  make  his  home  there. 
You  will  be  very  haj^py,  dear ;  he  is  a  noble-hearted 
man."     And  she  kisseil  her  tenderly. 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  271 

Of  the  keen  pang  which  it  cost  Dora's  sensitive,  ch'nging, 
timid  nature  to  cut  herself  loose  thus  from  her  only  friends, 
she  gave  no  sign  ;  it  would  only  mar  their  happiness,  and 
nothing  could  be  otherwise  arranged.  What  could  one 
pain  more  signify  to  her?  had  not  her  life  become 

"  A  drear  golgotha,  wliere  all  the  ground  is  white 
With  the  wrecks  of  joys  that  have  perished,  the  skeletons  of  delight"? 

And  so  without  one  sigh  or  tear  she  set  about  preparing 
for  her  friend's  marriage  and  departure,  with  a  strange, 
calm  serenity  which  was  not  natural  to  her  years.  One 
would  have  imagined  it  was  a  mother  whose  tender  voice 
advised  and  suggested  and  encouraged  a  daughter's 
manifold  preparations  for  her  wedding  journey,  instead 
of  a  young  creature  of  her  own  age,  to  whom  it  all  seemed 
the  dreariest  mockery. 

The  wedding-day  was  fixed  for  the  28th, — only  five  days 
yet  to  be  together, — and  then,  Agnes  with  her  husband 
were  to  start    for  England,  and  Ronald  with  them  ! 

As  she  passed  through  the  little  gate  held  open  for  her 
by  the  ever-ready  hand,  Dora  could  not  resist  sending 
one  swift  upward  glance  at  the  pale,  sad  face  of  the  man 
she  loved,  and  murmuring,  "Have  you  been  in  pain? 
Is  the  bandage  easy  ?  You  do  not  look  as  bright  as  when 
we  left  you." 

"  Thanks,  it  is  quite  comfortable  ;  the  heat  is  trying  me 
somewhat,  and  yet  I  have  not  stirred  out  of  the  shade  of 
this  porch." 

He  spoke  coldly,  though  courteously,  and  brought  his 
chair  forward  for  her.  But  she  gently  declined  it,  and, 
with  a  sadder  expression  in  her  face,  slowly  mounted  the 
stairs  to  Ikt  room,  followed  by  Marian. 

Dora  luitl  asitle  the  child's  hat  and  her  own,  and  then 


2^2  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

drew  her  to  her  knee,  and  said,  "Marian,  look  at  me ;  do 
you  love  me?" 

"Oh,  yes,  mamma,"  answered  the  little  one.  "You 
know  I  love  you,  dear,  darling,  sweetest  mamma  !" 

"  Then  put  }our  arms  about  my  neck  and  \ovt  me  tight. 
Oh,  my  darling,  creep  into  my  heart  and  still  its  pain  !" 
she  wailed. 

Marian  covered  her  with  kisses,  showering  endearing 
epithets  upon  her,  lisping  consolation  with  every  breath; 
and  gradually  the  storm  passed, — the  sobs  ceased,  the  tears 
were  dried,  and  smiles  and  nursery  rliymes  took  tlicir 
place.  And  then,  at  last,  Dora  yielded  to  her  petition  to 
sing  her  to  sleep,  and  her.  mid-day  nap  was  taken  while  the 
prayer  for  peace  rose  up  once  more  from  the  aching  heart 
upon  which  her  curly  head  rested.  "  Do7ia  7wbis pacem  /" 
echoed  through  the  cottage,  and  from  the  open  windows 
fell  upon  that  other  heart  below,  which  would  never  more 
know  peace  apart  from  her. 

When  the  voice  ceased,  Ronald  arose  and  left  the  porch, 
going  out  into  the  acacia-lined  road  in  a  fever  of  unrest, 
and  presently  Agnes  and  Dick  sauntered  away  in  an  oppo- 
site direction. 

An  hour  afterwards,  Dora  stood  at  her  window  looking 
out  over  the  fields  in  their  spring-tide  beauty,  with  the 
fair  heavens  smiling  down  upon  them,  and  her  heart  grew 
calm,  and  she  bade  Marian  look  at  the  little  clouds  which 
lay  still  "like  flocks  of  sheep,  or  vessels  sailing  in  God's 
other  deep."  "And  shall  mamma  tell  Marian  some 
pretty  verses  about  those  lovely  clouds?  and  Marian  may 
learn  to  say  them  too.     Now  listen  : 

"  '  Thinned  to  amber,  rimmed  with  silver, 
Clouds  in  tlie  distance  dwell, 
Clouds  that  are  cool  for  all  their  color. 
Pure  as  a  rose-lipped  shell. 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  273 

"  '  Fleets  of  wool  in  the  upper  heavens 
Gossamer  wings  unfurl : 
Sailing  so  high  they  seem  just  slipping 
Over  that  bar  of  pearl.'  " 

"Ah,  that  is  beautiful,  mamma!  Tell  me  it  again," 
pleaded  Marian. 

And  then  came  more  verses,  and  some  loving  serious 
talk  of  what  lay  beyond  the  bar  of  pearl ;  and  when 
Agnes  came  in  shortly  after,  Dora's  smile  of  greeting 
was  radiant,  for  the  peace  she  sought  had  been  found, 
and  God  had  smiled  out  of  the  heavens  upon  her. 


CHAPTER    II. 


"  This  is  the  last  time  that  we  may  ever  speak  together, 
Dora;  to-morrow  at  this  hour  I  shall  be  far  away;  answer, 
then,  I  implore  you,  the  one  question  I  ask  you." 

They  were  walking  together,  Dora  and  Ronald,  for  the 
fust  time  since  they  left  Paris;  but  it  was  their  last  day 
(to-morrow  was  to  be  Agnes's  wedding-day),  and  Dora 
had  not  been  able  to  refuse  his  earnest  request. 

It  was  evening,  the  sun  was  setting,  and  the 

"  Sweet,  calm  day  in  golden  haze 
Melts  down  the  amber  sky." 

They  were  walking  along  a  country  road,  and  Dora 
leaned  on  his  uninjured  arm.  She  had  laid  aside  her 
mourning,  to  please  Agnes,  until  after  the  wedding,  and 
her  pure  white  muslin  with  its  violet  ribbons,  and  the 
bunch  of  roses  in  her  belt,  made  her  look  more  like  the 
sweet  Dora  of  the  old  Rome-days  than  she  could  have 
believed  possible. 


2  74  THE   MILLS   OF    7 LIE    GODS. 

"1  will  answer  any  question  you  desire  answered,"  Dora 
said,  at  last. 

And  Donald  burst  forth:  "Tell  me  that  man's  name, 
your  husband.''''  How  bitter  the  words  were  in  his  mouth  ! 
"What  is  he?  Who  is  he?  Ah,  I  thought  so.  You 
will  answer  any  question  exceJ>tingi\\Q  one  I  wish  answered, 
— woman-like."  For  Dora  had  drawn  her  arm  away  from 
his  and  walked  on  silently  beside  him. 

"I  cannot,"  she  spoke  in  a  constrained  voice, — "I 
cannot  tell  you  ;  forgive  me, — it  would  fill  my  days  and 
nights  with  terror  to  feel  thatjiw/  and ]ie  might  meet.  Oh, 
spare  me  this  anxiety,  if  you  can  !"  she  plead. 

His  resolution  wavered  ;  he  took  her  hand  gently  and 
replaced  it  on  his  arm.  "I  will  not  pain  you  again, 
dearest ;  and  these  minutes  are  too  precious  to  waste  in 
fruitless  argument.     Dora,  will  you  write  to  me?" 

She  thought  a  moment.  "Yes,  I  will, — not  often,  and 
of  course  not  such  letters  as  you  would  care  to  receive 
from  me;   but  I  Vv'ill  write,  if  you  wish." 

"Thanks;  it  will  not  be  against  your  principles  to  say 
that  you  and  Marian  are  well  and  happy,  will  it  ?"  smiling 
down  at  her.  "And,  Dora,  is  it  necessary  for  you  to 
continue  these  singing-lessons?" 

"Not  absolutely;  but  why  should  I  give  them  up? — 
they  give  me  occupation,  and  I  must  fill  up  the  days  some- 
how, you  know." 

He  looked  away  ;  he  could  not  speak.  There  was  a 
pathos  too  deep  for  tears  in  this  acknowledgment  of  her 
utter  loneliness.  And  then  they  spoke  of  Ronald's  future, 
of  his  plans  and  prospects,  speaking  in  that  flat  mono- 
tone in  which  no  note  of  gladness,  hope,  or  ambition 
could  be  traced,  looking  forward  to  it  only  as  something 
to  be  lived  through, — a  patient,  hopeless,  waiting  for  the 
end. 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  275 

They  walked  slowly,  arm  linked  in  arm,  so  near  in  spirit 
that  the  thought  of  one  needed  to  be  but  partly  expressed 
to  the  quick  comprehension  of  the  other,  with  such  perfect 
^'rapport"  existing  between  soul  and  soul,  that  their  long 
silences  were  more  eloquent  than  speech  ;  and  yet  between 
them  stretched  an  impassable  gulf !  Each  realized  fully 
to-day,  as  they  stood  one  on  either  brink  and  gazed  across 
with  tear-blurred  eyes  at  each  other,  that  on  the  morrow 
that  dread  gulf  would  have  widened  to  such  proportions 
that  they  could  see  or  touch  each  other's  hands  in  this 
world  never  more. 

And  so  they  talked  together,  wandering  on  in  the  soli- 
tary, hay-scented,  June  twilight,  sadly,  but  with  an  unself- 
ish attempt  at  resignation,  lest  the  anguish  which  lay  in 
either  heart  might  overflow  the  barriers  of  self-control, 
and  so  make  endurance  futile,  knowing  the  while,  to  its 
uttermost  pang,  what  two  poor  souls  have  known,  one  of 
whom  was  condemned  to  die  before  the  sun  should  set 
to-morrow. 

Dora  drew  Ronald  on  to  speak  of  his  home,  of  his 
family,  each  of  whom  she  had  known  by  name  long  since. 
"You  will  find  your  greatest  liappiness  with  Lydia,"  she 
urged.  "  Go  to  her,  and  let  her  nurse  you  back  to  health 
and  strength  ;  the  gayety  and  exuberant  spirits  of  your 
younger  sisters  at  the  parsonage  will  jar  upon  you  after 
all  the  pain  yon  have  witnessed  lately,  but  Lydia's  calm 
restfulness  will  soothe  and  heal  you,  I  feel  sure." 

"  Yes,  Lydia  is  repose  itself;  the  very  soft  rustle  of  her 
garments  has  something  of  the  flutter  of  angelic  wings 
about  it.  But  would  it  be  right  for  me  to  bring  into  her 
new-born  happiness,  her  bright,  sweet  home,  my  wounds 
and  scars,  my  broken  health  and  broken  spirit  ?  For, 
oh  !  Dora,  I  have  felt  lately  that,  morally  and  physically, 
'there    is   no   health    in   me;'  and" — he  wont   on   vehe- 


276  THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

mently,  unheeding  her  gesture  of  remonstrance — "  I  al- 
ways seemed  to  feel,  through  all  former  troubles  or  cares, 
that  God's  hand  held  the  thunderbolts  of  fate  which  are 
sometimes  hurled  so  crushingly  at  humanity.  But  now 
all  is  dark ;  I  cannot  understand  ;  the  justice  of  God  is 
incomprehensible.  I  stumble  about  in  a  blind  rebellion, 
striving  to  find  comfort  in  parallel  cases  throughout  the 
ages  of  pain  since  the  Creation, — in  history,  in  the  ex- 
perience of  other  men;  and,"  he  added,  sadly,  "I  have 
found  them,  but  they  do  not  comfort  me.  Yes,  Dora, 
suffering  has  existed  since  the  world  began. 

"  '  I  have  seen  those  who  wore  Heaven's  armor  worsted; 
I  have  heard  Truth  lie  ; 
Seen  Life,  beside  the  fount  for  wlucli  it  thirsted, 
Curse  God,  and  die  !' 

and  it  has  not  made  my  pain  less  bitter  !" 

There  was  a  little  pause;  they  were  resting  now  on  the 
top  of  a  slight  elevation,  where  the  debris  of  a  broken-up 
camp  still  scattered  the  ground.  On  that  spot,  only  a  few 
short  weeks  ago,  had  the  Prussian  troops  held  their  orgies, 
gloating  over  the  sight  of  fair  Paris  in  conflagration-  in 
every  quarter;  drinking  deep ;  their  most  rapturous  toast 
being,  ^^  Paris,  cuit  dans  son  Jus  /" 

Dora,  whose  strength  was  soon  exhausted,  had  seated 
herself  on  a  heap  of  demolished  tent-props,  and  was 
gazing  now  at  the  western  sky,  where  the  sun,  just  disap- 
pearing, left  his  foot-prints  in  gold  and  purple. 

"I  know  so  well  what  you  feci,"  she  said,  presently. 
"I  have  gone  through  that  dark  valley  before  now.  I, 
too,  have  doubted  everything,  desi)aircd  of  everything,  in 
a  dumb  agony  of  hopelessness.  But  it  has  passed  away; 
there  will  always  be  a  sad,  empty  pain  in  my  heart, — 
always, — but  I  shall  never  rebel  as  I  have  done  again. 
Ah  !  what  avails  it  to  thrust  one's  self  against  the  jagged 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  277 

rock  of  Unbelief, — question  the  mercy  and  justice  of  the 
God  who  has  given  us  the  power  to  suffer  for  His  own 
wise  purposes?  The  end  of  it  will  come  to  you,  as  to 
me,  when,  bruised  and  broken, — 

"  '  I  heard  Faith's  low,  sweet  singing  in  the  night, 

And,  groping  through  the  darkness,  touched  God's  hand.'  '" 

Ronald,  looking  in  her  rapt,  upturned  face,  with  its 
transparent  clearness  and  great,  glowing  eyes,  with  the 
waved  nimbus  of  gold-brown  hair  above  her  pure  brow, 
felt  a  sickening  pang  sho^t  through  him,  which  warned 
him  that  this  was  well-nigh  the  last  time  his  eyes  would 
rest  upon  that  face,  which  bore  even  now  God's  seal 
upon  its  beauty. 

Instinctively  he  took  the  light  shawl  he  had  carried  on 
his  arm  and  drew  it  tenderly  about  her  shoulders,  as 
though  by  even  that  trifling  action  he  could  postpone  the 
coming  of  the  dread  messenger. 

"There  is  one  tiling  more,  Dora,  you  must  promise 
me,"  he  began,  huskily,  after  ten  minutes'  silence, 
through  which  he  dared  not  trust  his  voice. 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  said,  dreamily,  drawing  away  her 
eyes  with  an  effort  from  the  western  sky,  and  fixing 
them,  full  of  solemn  glory,  on  his  heart-broken  face. 

"Should  you  fall  ill,  or  Marian,  should  harm  come  to 
her,  will  you  have  me  sent  for  immediately?" 

She  answered,  gravely,  "No,  forgive  me!  I  cannot 
promise  this.  Ah  !  my  friend,  when  you  look  at  me 
like  that  my  pain  is  intensified  so  that  I  cannot  bear  it;" 
and  tears  rolled  down  over  the  white  face.  Ronald's 
composure  was  shattered  at  the  sight. 

"Then  I  shall  not  leave  you.  No,  Dora,  no  pleading 
of  yours  can  move  me  now.  I  shall  stay  with  you  as 
long  as  you  are  spared  to  me  on  earth,  and  then — well, 
then  I  will  stay  with  you  still  !" 

24 


2  78         THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

A  gleam  of  joy  broke  out  over  her  sweet  face  as  he 
spoke,  and  the  deep  eyes  gleamed  through  their  tears, — 
tears  born  of  renunciation.  So  welcome,  so  dear  to  the 
heart  of  woman  is  the  iteration  of  the  old,  never  worn- 
out  story,  that  she  would  draw  back  from  the  gates  of 
Paradise,  or  linger  about  the  dread  shores  of  Avernus,  to 
hearken  once  more  to  its  faintest  whisper. 

"You  are  not  yourself  now,"  Dora  said,  gently  strok- 
ing with  her  cool,  soft  hand  the  strong,  feverish  one 
which  clasped  hers  like  a  vice.  "You  are  not  the  strong, 
noble,  courageous  man  who  would  die  before  he  would 
stoop  to  dishonor,  that  I  thought,  or  you  would  not 
make  my  task  so  hard." 

"But,  Dora,"  he  interrupted,  "can  you  expect  me  to 
look  on  your  face  for  the  last  time  to-morrow  ?  Is  it  not 
bitterly  cruel  enough  to  leave  you,  delicate,  unprotected 
as  you  are,  but  I  am  to  be  possessed  of  superhuman  en- 
durance?" 

"And  would  it  comfort  you  to  see  me  die?"  she 
asked.     "  Is  that  what  you  wish  me  to  promise?" 

He  answered  nothing,  but  loosed  her  hand  and  bowed 
his  head  in  his  palms  with  a  smothered  groan.  Then  the 
7uomaii  in  Dora  reasserted  itself,  and  she  leaned  eagerly 
towards  him,  whispering, — 

"Rest  content.  I  could  not  die  without  bidding  you 
farewell.  I  will  send  for  you  when  the  end  draws  near. 
/  will  have  no  one  by  me  at  the  last  but  you.  Do  you 
hear?     Oh,  look  up,  and  tell  xsxo.  you  will  come  to  me  /'' 

He  did  not  move  or  speak;  his  face  was  hidden,  and  a 
strong  shudder  passed  over  his  frame.  Her  voice  broke 
the  silence  in  tones  sweet  and  sad  as  the  wail  of  an  a;olian 
harp : 

"  You  will  be  patient  and  good  for  my  sake.  No  one 
knows  what  the  future  may  bring  to  you  of  forgetfulness 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


279 


or  joy,  of  which  no  life  is  utterly  bereft.  You  have  much 
happiness  before  you  ;  loving  hearts  await  you  in  your 
dear  home.  You  have  ;.  outh  and  health  and  energy,  and, 
I  hope,  ambiti  n.  How  many  are  there  who  can  count 
not  one  of  these  blessings!  You  will  not  let  o)U'  sorrow 
crush  you.  One  disappointment,  however  bitter,  should 
not  wreck  a  man's  life.  Why  else  is  strength  given  one 
but  to  overtop  misfortune  and  to  conquer  fate  ?  One  is 
so  tempted  to  exaggerate  one's  misery.  You  know  jny 
favorite  says, — 

"  '  W'e  over-state  the  ills  of  life.     We  walk  upon 
The  shadow  of  hills,  across  a  level  thrown, 
And  pant  like  climbers.' 

Still  Ronald  sat  mute,  drinking  in  the  sound  of  her 
gentle  pleading,  unable  to  speak  or  move  from  the  con- 
centrated anguish  which  held  him  in  an  iron  grasp. 

When  he  arose  at  last,  his  face  was  drawn  and  white, 
and  the  sad  smile  with  which  he  offered  her  his  arm, 
saying,  "  The  dew  is  falling,  Dora ;  you  must  go  within 
now,"  made  her  heart  ache  as  it  had  never  yet  done 
through  all  her  sorrowful  life. 

These  were  almost  the  last  words  which  passed  between 
them. 

The  next  day  after  the  quiet  wedding — which  had  been 
solemnized  at  the  British  Embassy,  in  Paris,  Dora  pre- 
serving throughout  perfect  composure  and  even  a  cheerful 
serenity — they  drove,  all  four  together,  to  the  "  Gare" 
(Marian  having  been  left  in  charge  of  the  widow,  their 
landlady),  where  the  happy  couple  and  Buchanan  were 
to  take  the  train  for  Boulogne,  e7i  route  to  England. 

Agnes,  when  the  moment  of  parting  came,  broke  down 
utterly;  sobs  shook  her  as  she  clung  to  her  friend  in  wild 
grief,  and  only  Dora's  firmness  saved  her  from  missing 
the  train.     She  it  was  who  unlocked  the  frenzied  clasp  of 


2 So        THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

Agnes's  fingers  upon  her-,  who  whispered,  "Agnes,  Mr. 
Ogilvie  is  pained  by  this  sorrow  of  yours  on  your  bridal- 
day.  Cahn  yourself,  my  darling;  I  beg  you  not  to  un- 
nerve me.  Agnes,  let  me  go,  dear  ;  you  are  killing  me  !" 
And  she  tore  herself  away,  just  pressing  Dick  Ogilvie' s 
hand  silently  as  she  passed  him,  which  he  as  silently  re- 
turned, and  then  sprang  into  the  railway  carriage,  where 
Agnes  had  thrown  herself  back  in  convulsive  weeping. 

Ronald  Buchanan  and  Dora  stood  alone  on  the  plat- 
form,— alone  in  a  rushing,  scrambling,  noisy  crowd  of 
passengers  scurrying  for  seats.  Dora  looked  confused, 
and  put  her  hands  for  a  moment  to  her  temples.  Ronald 
quietly  laid  his  valise  on  the  seat  next  Dick's  and  ap- 
proached her.  "  I  will  see  you  safely  to  your  carriage, 
Dora;  there  is  suflficient  time." 

She  took  his  arm,  and,  trembling  violently,  turned 
towards  the  entrance  of  the  station,  before  which  the 
hack  stood  which  had  brought  them.  Ronald  placed 
her  in  the  carriage  and  gave  the  necessary  directions  to 

the  coachman  to  drive  as  quickly  as  possible  to ,  St. 

Denis,  and  then  he  leaned  forward  and  said  to  Dora, 
"Remember,  your  letters  will  be  my  one  consolation,  and 

you  promise  to  send  for  me  when — if "     His  voice 

failed,  he  shut  the  carriage-door  and  turned  away. 

"Ronald!"  cried  a  voice  piercing  him  to  the  heart, 
and  a  death-white  face,  with  eyes  distended  and  wild, 
gleamed  on  liim  through  the  carriage-window.  He 
rushed  forward,  tore  open  the  door,  and  seized  her  in 
his  arms.  Then,  out  of  the  agony  of  his  heart,  for  the 
first  time,  were  showered  kisses  and  tears  upon  that 
stricken  white  face. 

Half  fainting,  he  laid  her  back  upon  the  cushions,  with 
a  fierce  effort  closed  tlic  door  upon  her,  and,  drawing  his 
hat  down  over  his  eyes,  he  strode  away  into  the  station. 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  281 

There,  with  a  porter's  cap  upon  his  head  and  a  porter's 
barrow  in  his  hand,  Jacques  Toquelet  stood  awaiting  the 
incoming  train.  In  less  than  two  minutes  his  barrow 
was  transferred  to  a  companion,  and  he  was  seated,  by- 
Buchanan's  orders,  on  the  box  of  the  fiacre  which  con- 
tained poor  Dora. 

From  that  hour  Jacques  deserted  the  corps  of  porters, 
and  became  the  faithful  servant  of  Dora  and  the  indefati- 
gable slave  of  little  Marian.  He  found  the  position  far 
more  agreeable,  as  well  as  more  lucrative,  than  his  former 
occupation,  for  Buchanan  would  have  lived  on  a  crust 
rather  than  that  Dora  should  be  unprotected  and  in  need 
of  a  faithful  servant. 


CHAPTER    III. 

Anne  Ogilvie  sat  in  a  brown  study,  with  two  open 
letters  lying  in  her  lap. 

Her  duties  in  the  school-room  were  over  for  the  day, 
and  Lady  Valerie  had  gone  to  drive  with  her  mamma, 
therefore  it  was  permissible  for  the  young  governess  to 
indulge  herself  with  a  day-dream,  growing  out  of  the 
astounding  news  which  had  just  reached  her  through  the 
medium  of  the  afternoon  post. 

The  first  of  these  letters  had  come  from  her  brother 
Dick,  and  informed  her  in  half  a  dozen  cheery  lines  of 
his  arrival  in  England  with  his  bride  !  The  letter  was 
dated  Folkestone,  but  they  were  coming  at  once  to  Lon- 
don, where  he  begged  lier  to  meet  him  the  next  day  at 
Batt's  Hotel,  Dover  Street. 

The  other  was  a  lawyer-like  document,  on  stiff  white 

24* 


282  THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

paper,  blue-lined,  and  written  in  the  stereotyped  legal 
calligraphy.  It  informed  her,  on  the  part  of  Messrs. 
Snodgrass  and  Phipps,  that  she  had  come  into  possession, 
through  the  death  of  her  godmother,  the  Lady  Anne 
Mclntyre,  of  an  annuity  of  five  hundred  pounds,  on  con- 
dition that  she  should  at  once  resign  her  position  as  gov- 
erness and  take  up  her  residence  in  a  neatly-appointed 
country-house,  which  was  one  of  that  kind  but  eccentric 
lady's  many  possessions. 

At  first  Anne  felt  stunned  almost,  by  the  shock  of  such 
undreamed-of  good  fortune  ;  falling  into  her  lap,  too,  just 
at  the  moment  when  she  would  have  greatest  pleasure  in 
it.  For  here  was  Dick,  dear,  good,  thoughtless,  old  fel- 
low, having  taken  unto  himself  a  wife,  would  be  so  glad 
of  a  home  for  her  and  himself,  and  how  happy  they  would 
all  be  together!  "  I  wonder  what  this  Agnes  is  like?" 
she  thought,  taking  up  the  letter  and  glancing  over  its 
hasty  lines.  "  Of  Agnes  I  will  say  nothing,"  Dick  wrote  ; 
"  you  will  love  her  almost  as  much  as  I  do  when  you  see 
her.     You  must  be  great  chums  for  my  sake,"  etc. 

And  then  Anne  read  over  again  the  lawyer's  note,  and 
sank  once  more  into  musings,  over  which  many  a  smile 
rijipled.  The  vivid  color  deepened  in  her  cheek  as  she 
drew  towards  her  her  escritoire,  and,  opening  it  with  a 
key  hung  on  her  watch-guard,  she  drew  from  its  recesses 
a  letter  written  on  thin  foreign  paper,  and,  dimpling  into 
a  loving  smile,  she  opened  and  read  it  for  the  sixtieth 
time. 

It  bore  the  American  post-mark,  and  it  was  signed  by 
Percival  Tyrrell.  With  those  three  letters  on  her  lap, 
Anne's  cup  of  joy  overflowed  in  happy  tears  of  thankful- 
ness to  the  God  of  the  fatherless. 

For  Toto  had  gone  down  to  Liverpool  that  same  day 
when  he  had  unconsciously  dealt  such  a  cruel  stab  to  poor 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  283 

Anne's  heart,  brimful  of  sympathy  for  the  chief  actors  in 
this  drama,  of  which  the  pale,  sad  face  of  his  master  and 
the  sharp  pang  which  the  news  of  his  sudden  journey  had 
perceptibly  caused  the  beautiful  lady  whom  "  Massa  Percy 
had  been  sweet  on  so  long,"  had  furnished  him  the  key. 
And  he  had  poured  out  his  vivid  description  of  her  joy 
at  the  reception  of  Tyrrell's  last  letter,  the  ready  answer 
which  she  had  been  about  to  confide  to  his  charge  with 
smiles  and  blushes,  when,  like  a  blow,  his  information  of 
his  master's  absence  and  return  to  America  struck  the 
color  from  her  cheek,  the  light  from  her  eyes,  and  "she 
just  crushed  up  the  letter  in  her  little  white  hand  as  if  it 
had  been  a  wasp  stinging  her;  and  she  smiled  at  me  so 
sad,  Massa  Percy, — as  if  her  poor  heart  was  just  breaking. ' ' 
And  the  great,  big  tears  stood  in  Toto's  brown  orbs  and 
expressed  more  than  his  poor  words. 

How  many  times  throughout  the  voyage  Toto  was  called 
upon  to  dilate  u[)on  the  scene  of  that  morning  need  not 
be  remembered,  or  \\o\\  often  Tyrrell  had  regretted  his 
hasty  conclusions,  and  longed  to  be  back  in  England. 

Scarcely  a  month  had  elapsed  since  Anne  Ogilvie  had 
believed  that  love  and  hope  and  joy  had  gone  out  of  her 
life  forever,  when  she  received  the  following  communica- 
tion from  Tyrrell : 

"  Brevoort  House,  New  York. 

"Toto  tells  me  you  forgot  to  give  him  the  answer  to 
my  letter.  May  I  entreat  you  to  delay  no  longer  tlie 
posting  of  that  which  will  bring  new  life  to  one  who  has 
been  starving  for  ten  da\s? 

"Percy  Tyrrell. 

"  Miss  Ogilvie.    June  22." 


284  THE  MILLS   OF   THE  GODS. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

The  parting  between  Anne  Ogilvie  and  her  little  pupil 
was  a  painful  one  on  both  sides.  They  had,  through 
nearly  four  years  of  constant  association,  become  warmly 
attached  to  each  other.  Even  the  cold,  proud,  unde- 
monstrative countess's  nerves  were  somewhat  shaken  at  the 
thought  of  the  hiatus  which  would  intervene  between  the 
exodus  of  one  such  faithful  servant  and  the  very  doubtful 
possibility  of  the  incoming  of  an  equally  trustworthy 
successor. 

It  would  be  unfair  to  this  lady  not  to  mention  that  she 
regretted  also  the  withdrawal  of  the  bright  young  face, 
and  the  winning,  high-bred  manner,  which,  though  the 
antipodes  of  obsequious,  never  varied  in  its  gentle, 
respectful  deference,  —  that  somewhere,  even  in  that 
narrow  heart  through  which  the  blood  flowed  languidly 
in  an  admirably  aristocratic  pulsation,  there  glowed 
something  nearly  akin  to  affection,  differing  from  that 
inspired  by  her  pet  poodle  of  years'  pampering,  in  that 
it  was  mingled  with  respect,  which  the  pure  tone  and 
innate  dignity  of  Anne's  character  exacted  from  all  who 
were  associated  with  her. 

Her  ladyship  presented  her,  in  bidding  her  farewell, 
with  a  handsome  watch  bearing  her  monogram  in  brilliants ; 
and  Anne,  in  kissing  the  countess's  hand,  left  tliereon  two 
crystal  drops  which  all  tlie  brilliants  of  Golconda  could 
not  purchase. 

The  little  Lady  Valerie  would  not  be  consoled  by  the 
gift  of  a  new  necklace  fur  lier  dear  governess's  departure, 
and  wept  sorely  all  that  last  day,  bedewing  with  her  tears 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS.  285 

each  article  which  she  laid  in  Anne's  boxes,  and  insisting 
upon  embracing  her  every  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Her  little  face  was  red  and  swollen  with  weeping  when 
Anne  stooped  under  the  lace  and  silken  curtains  of  her 
bed,  to  kiss  her  hot  cheek  for  the  last  time,  at  midnight, 
for  she  was  to  leave  the  next  morning  at  six  o'clock,  and 
she  would  not  disturb  her  little  friend. 

A  double  dose  of  red  lavender  did  not  compose  the 
countess  to  slumber,  and  the  earl  was  called  upon,  in  the 
small  hours,  to  say  how  they  ever  could  find  a  person  to 
fill  Miss  Ogilvie's  place ;  whether  it  was  not  too  unfor- 
tunate that  she  should  have  had  a  god-mother;  and  other 
conundrums  too  numerous  to  mention. 

His  lordship  devoutly  thanked  heaven  when  the  sun 
mounted  into  the  sky  to  sufficient  altitude  to  authorize  his 
adjournment  to  his  dressing-room. 

As  Anne  descended  from  the  railway-carriage  which  had 
borne  her  swiftly  up  to  London,  and  entered  the  station, 
her  attention  was  attracted  by  a  large  party  of  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  accompanied  by  stylish-looking  lady's-maids 
and  valets  laden  with  dressing-cases,  traveling-rugs,  etc., 
among  whom  she  recognized  Lady  Florence  Ellesmere, 
on  Mr.  Dyke  Faucett's  arm.  "Can  it  be  a  wedding- 
party?"  she  wondered;  but  no,  there  loomed  up  in  the 
background  papa  and  mamma  with  little  Lord  Lawrence 
and  his  tutor. 

Lady  Florence  was  looking  very  delicate,  and  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  season,  to  which  she  had  contributed 
almost  her  last  spark  of  vitality,  her  physician  had  ordered 
her  to  go  at  once  to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  where  she  could 
absorb  sea-air  without  the  dissipations  of  Brighton. 

Dyke  Faucett,  assiduous  to  the  letter  of  his  devotion, 
was  not  to  accompany  them,  but  had  promised  to  follow 
them  in  his  yacht,  which  was  a  new  and  all  absorbing  toy 


2 86         THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

at  this  moment,  and  Avhich  was  being  fitted  out  in  luxur- 
ious magnificence  at  Southampton. 

Lady  Florence's  marriage  was  arranged  for  the  latter 
part  of  September,  and  was  to  take  place  at  their  house  in 
Ventnor,  as  town  is  empty  at  that  season  ;  and  part  of  the 
bridal-tour  was  to  be  taken  in  the  superb  "  lo,"  a  yacht 
of  some  two  hundred  tons,  furnished  with  a  regal  magnifi- 
cence and  at  a  regal  cost. 

Dyke  had  fully  satisfied  his  not-over-sensitive  conscience 
that  having  failed  in  procuring  any  information  respecting 
Dora's  existence,  through  his  banker,  after  the  siege  had 
exterminated  the  weak  and  helpless  in  Paris,  the  danger 
of  becoming  a  bigamist  was  so  infinitesimal  that  it  was 
not  worth  a  second  thought. 

He  had,  therefore,  not  a  single  care  upon  him,  if  we 
may  except  the  occasional  violet-perfumed  missives  which 
flowed  in  undiminished  ardor  from  the  chateau  in  Brittany, 
where  the  beautiful  marquise  was  saving  her  complexion, 
and  counting  the  sands  of  life  which  were  running  swiftly 
through  the  hour-glass  of  her  husband's  life.  "  How 
deuced  unlucky  it  would  be  should  the  old  man  step  out 
before  September  !"  ruminated  Dyke,  after  the  receipt  of 
the  List  effusion,  in  which  a  P.  S.  stated  that  they  had 
been  ordered  to  take  the  invalid  to  St.  Malo,  "as  he  was 
becoming  daily  weaker,  and  the  sea-air  might  prolong  his 
life  difew  weeks ;  longer  they  could  not  hope  for."  "  I 
very  much  fear,"  continued  Dyke,  addressing  the  familiar 
demon  in  his  soul,  "  that  should  such  a  contre-temps  occur, 
Florence  would  be  obliged  to  go  to  the  wall.  I  am 
equally  engaged  to  each  of  them,  and — I  cannot  marry 
them  both."  (Why  not  ?  A  man  of  such  infinite  resources 
might  do  anything.  A  triple  bigamist  is  an  anomaly,  to 
be  sure,  even  in  a  novel  of  the  present  day,  but  1  have  no 
doubt   it   could   l)e   done,   and   has  been.      We  have  the 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  287 

assurance  of  that  keen  student  of  moral  anatomy,  Solomon, 
that  "there  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun/'  and  in  the 
great  menagerie  of  the  world  there  glide  monsters,  be- 
side whom  the  "wolf"  would  seem  a  meek  household 
pet,  wearing  the  "sheep's  clothing"  of  Poole  and  others 
of  his  craft.) 

"Yes,"  mused  Dyke  Faucett,  complacently,  as  he 
dawdled  over  his  chocolate  at  mid-day,  "  Florence 
would  have  to  succumb  to  the  force  of  circumstances 
and  the  energy  of  that  little  bruiie,  for  Pauline  zuoiild 
marry  me  in  spite  of  everything,  even  were  we,  Florence 
and  I,  standing  at  St.  George's  chancel-rails, — she  is  such 
a  fiery  little  diablesse.  She  wouldn't  suit  me,  by  a  long 
shot,  as  well  as  the  other  ;  she  has  fallen  over  head  and 
ears  in  love  with  me,  and  that  is  so  deuced  unfortunate 
— in  a  wife.  Her  devotion  was  becoming  oppressive 
when  that  Deus  ex  machina  arrived,  recalling  her  to  her 
post  at  her  lord's  bedside.  I  wonder  what  he  is  worth? 
.They  lived  well,  but  one  cannot  always  tell.  \\'ell," 
yawning,  "I  shall  just  look  in  at  Tattersall's  and  at 
White's,  and  then,  ho  !  for  Southampton  and  the  Isle  of 
Wight !"  For  a  telegram  had  just  announced  to  him  that 
the  "Id"  was  in  readiness,  awaiting  his  commands. 


CHAPTER     V. 


"  '  There  is  nothing  a  man  knows  in  grief,  or  in  sin, 

Half  so  bitter  as  to  think,  "  What  I  mij[ht  have  been,"  ' 

"  LvDiA,  and  this  thouglit  haunts  me  and  troubles  me 
ceaselessly  ;  and  even  were  it  not  so,  can  I  ever  hope  for 
peace  whilst  that  poor  child  remains  in  that  pestilent  land 


288  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

which  reeks  even  yet  with  crime  and  rebellion?  It  is  not 
safe  for  her,  it  is  not  human  to  allow  her  to  be  so  exposed, 
— fragile,  delicate  as  a  flower,  and  alotte  in  a  strange 
land."  And  Ronald  Buchanan,  lying  on  a  lounge  in  the 
cool,  shaded  library  at  Woodland  Parsonage,  with  Lydia 
sitting  on  a  low  ottoman  by  his  side,  almost  groaned 
aloud. 

His  sister's  tender  eyes  grew  soft  with  sympathy  as  she 
replied,  in  a  sweet,  low  voice,  "It  is  pitiful,  but  it  is 
better  so.  You  tell  me  she  has  a  man-servant  with  her ; 
is  he  not  entirely  reliable?" 

"  I  feel  convinced  that  he  is  ;  I  have  seen  his  fidelity, 
his  honesty,  and  his  courage  severely  tested,  and  those  are 
three  attributes  of  a  good  servant.  I  have  sent  him  my 
address,  and  bidden  him  write  me  each  week." 

"And  Dora, — does  she  write  also?" 

"Yes.  Ah,  do  not  blame  me,  I  must  be  able  to  judge 
for  myself  in  this  case;"  for  a  sadder  look  had  shadowed 
Lydia's  face.  She  smiled  a  little  now.  "  Do  you  think,, 
my  boy,  that  m  this  case  you  are  an  impartial  judge  ? 
Do  you  not  believe  that  passion  may  overthrow  in  a 
moment  the  stores  of  wisdom  laid  up  through  years  of 
experience.  You  must  not  pride  yourself  upon  reason, 
when  love  has  made  you  most  unreasonable." 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  "  Ah,  that  is  so  like 
old  times,  Lydia;  just  a  wee  bit  of  a  lecture,  tempered 
by  your  sweet  voice  and  loving  eyes.  But  what  would 
you  have  me  do?" 

"Pray!" 

"  I  cannot.  There  is  no  answer  for  such  prayers  ;  there 
is  not  even  hope  in  the  next  world,  since  our  lives  must 
be  perfected  here,  or  carry  the  incompletion  into  the  life 
beyond.  It  seems  to  me  that  there  would  be  but  the  ghost 
of  our  nature  left  after  casting  the  shell  of  memory,  hope 


TIJE  MILLS  OF   THE    GODS.  2 89 

and  human  love;  and  there  can  be  none  of  these  in 
the  heaven  above,  for  'there  is  perfect  rest.'  "  He  sighed 
impatiently,  and,  rising  abruptly,  paced  the  room.  It 
was  not  difficult  to  see  that  rest  and  /le  were  no  longer 
friends ;  the  calm,  phlegmatic  temperament  had  become 
nervous,  irrritable,  petulant ;  the  smooth,  white  brow  was 
wrinkled  into  a  frown ;  the  clear,  gray  eyes  looked 
strained  and  sunken  in  their  hollow  sockets ;  the  firm 
mouth  was  set  in  the  stern  lines  of  an  unconquerable  grief. 
Lydia's  heart  grew  sadder  as  she  watched  him,  noting 
the  changes  which  had  been  wrought,  and  into  her  mem- 
ory stole  two  lines  of  French  cynicism, — 

"  Pres  des  femmes  que  sommes-nous  ? 
Des  pantins  qu'on  ballotte  !" 

For  it  seemed  to  her  strong,  pure  nature  that  love  must 
be  void  of  selfishness,  and  that  although  it  is  surely  the 
sweetest,  yet  it  is  not  the  highest  duty  of  man  or  woman; 
and  she  saw  clearly  that  in  this  case  it  should  be  reso- 
lutely stamped  out,  even  though  the  spark  of  Ronald's 
life — or  Dora's — should  be  crushed  underfoot  in  the  doing 
of  it.  To  her  upright,  uncompromising  integrity  of  char- 
acter, no  half-measures  were  justifiable.  "  To  dally  with 
wrong  which  does  no  harm"  had  always  been  an  incon- 
ceivable paradox  to  her  unclouded  reasoning.  The  demon 
of  sophistry  fled  before  her  steadfast  out-look,  and  she 
never  ventured  in  those  crooked  labyrinths  where  wish- 
fathered  thought  loses  itself  irretrievably,  and  the  pale 
shade  of  a  self-constituted  morality  is  seized,  in  lieu  of  the 
stalwart  substance  girt  about  with  the  law  and  gospel  of 
one's  inner  consciousness. 

If  Lydia  felt  the  tenderness  of  her  affection  for  her 
best-loved  brother  over-weighted  in  the  faintest  degree 
by  pity,  and   its  twin,  contempt,  that  so  fine  a  nature 

N  21; 


290 


THE  MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 


should  have  succumbed  in  such  disastrous  fashion  to  pas- 
sion for  a  woman,  it  was  but  for  a  moment,  for  quickly 
her  sense  of  justice  interposed,  and  she  remembered  that 
he  was  a  man,  of  different  quality  of  fibre,  nerve,  and  a 
lesser  power  of  endurance  than  women,  and  therefore  the 
"  mene  tekel"  of  a  woman's  judgment  could  scarcely  fail 
to  be  faulty. 

And  then  all  other  thoughts  were  swallowed  up  in  the 
great  wave  of  sympathy  for  a  trial  so  bitter  as  this,  and 
she  spoke  to  him  lovingly  and  comprehendingly,  avoiding 
the  platitudes  of  condolence,  which  she  felt  would  but 
chafe  him;  withholding  all  remonstrance  that  in  his  pres- 
ent mood  would  prove  futile  as  unwelcome;  and  though 
she  dared  not  point  at  hope,  and  would  not  hint  at  the 
possibility  of  forgetfulness,  so  exquisite  was  her  tact,  yet, 
when  he  left  her,  he  felt  that  the  keenest  agony  had 
passed  away.  Her  last  words  rang  in  his  ears  exultantly 
throughout  the  long,  swinging  walk  which  was  to  insure 
him  a  good  night's  rest. 

"  So  we'll  not  dream,  nor  look  back,  dear," 

she  had  whispered, 

"  But  march  right  on,  content  and  bold. 
To  where  our  life  sets  heavenly  clear, 
Westward  behind  the  hills  of  gold." 


CHAPTER    VI. 

"I  HAVE  nothing  further  to  say  to  you,  sir.  You  have 
heard,  and  thoroughly  understand,  I  believe,  my  decision; 
either  you  give  up  this  mad  freak  of  yours,  to  go  over  to 
France  almost  upon  the  eve  of  your  wedding-day,  or  you 
cut  yourself  adrift  from  me  forever!" 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


!9I 


Sir  Philip's  voice  was  strong  and  clear  as  these  words 
fell  slowly  from  his  lips,  but  his  face  had  grown  white 
with  the  indignation  and  anguish  which  was  biting 
"sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth"  into  his  good  heart. 

Dyke  Faucett,  perfectly  cool,  calm,  and  handsome  as 
ever,  indolently  lounging  in  a  great  bamboo  smoking- 
chair  whilst  he  enjoyed  his  delicious  cigarette,  glanced 
through  half-closed  eyes  at  his  guardian,  who  continued, 
emphatically, — 

"The  whole  course  of  your  life  has  been  a  source  of 
self-reproach  to  me ;  I  have  been  culpably  weak,  and  be- 
cause I  traced  many  of  your  faults  of  character  to  that 
fact,  I  have  been  less  harsh  than  you  deserved.  Of  your 
ungrateful  neglect  of  myself,  and  the  estate  of  which  you 
believe  yourself  to  be  the  heir,  I  shall  say  nothing,  but 
of  your  profligate  habits  whilst  abroad,  of  the  stories 
which  are  told  of  your  extravagance  and  recklessness,  I 
am  not  ignorant  as  you  imagine.  You  have  disappointed 
and  grieveci  me  inexpressibly ;  but  to  my  knowledge  you 
have  not  yet  brought  my  name  into  dishonor,  and,  by 
Heaven,  sir,  you  never  shall  !" 

Dyke  arose  slowly  to  his  feet,  stretched  himself,  yawned 
slightly,  and  pulled  the  bell. 

Sir  Philip  grew  a  shade  paler.  Can  it  be  believed  he 
loved  this  man  with  a  yearning  affection  still?  Mothers 
of  prodigal  sons  w^ho  have  killed  the  fatted  calf  seventy- 
times-seven,  read  me  this  riddle  ! 

Yet  a  flash  shot  forth  from  Sir  Philip's  gentle  hazel 
eyes  as  Dyke  addressed  the  servant,  desiring  him  to  send 
a  messenger  to  the  captain  of  the  "  lo"  to  command  that 
all  should  be  in  readiness  to  sail  on  the  morrow. 

After  the  door  had  closed  and  Dvke  had  resumed  his 
seat.  Sir  Philip,  leaning  slightly  towards  him,  said,  "This 
is  your- answer,  then;  you  repudiate  my  ckiiui  upon  your 


292 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


obedience,  respect,  gratitude;  with  your  own  hand  you 
sever  all  tie  between  yourself  and  me?" 

"By  no  means,"  answered  Dyke,  at  last.  "I  have 
already  explained  to  you  that  my  temporary  absence  is 
unavoidable  j  were  it  not  so,  I  should  not  dream  of  caus- 
ing this  excitement.  "  He  replaced  his  cigarette  and  smoked 
placidly. 

"  How  can  it  be  unavoidable?  If  it  is  a  question  of 
money, — there  is  my  check-book  ;  if  not,  what  could  take 
you  away  at  such  a  time,  at  the  risk  of  postponing  your 
wedding-day,  or  breaking  off  a  marriage  which  was  ar- 
ranged by  me  and  to  which  my  honor  is  pledged  ?  Rest 
assured,  Dyke,  Florence  meant  what  she  said  when  she 
told  me  this  morning  that  you  had  refused  her  request 
and  might  accede  to  mine,  but  that  she  would  find  it 
very  difficult  to  forgive  a  discourtesy  of  such  marked 
nature." 

Dyke  raised  his  shoulders,  and  his  lip  curled  slightly : 
"All  talk, — for  effect;  she  Avill  not  let  Ellingham  slip 
through  her  fingers  for  such  arrant  nonsense  as  this.  I  am 
obliged  to  go,  and  1  informed  her  of  that  fact.  Should  she 
take  exception  to  it,  she  may,  and  that  is  the  end  of  it ; 
she  loses  Ellingham — and  w^. " 

"But  Ellingham  is  not  yet  yours,  monseigncur,"  replied 
Sir  Philip,  quietly.  "  And  should  you  be  so  unfortunate 
in  wind  or  weather  as  to  be  absent  from  your  post  at  this 
place  on  the  2Sth — Ellingham  never  will  be  f 

There  was  no  oath,  nor  the  slightest  raising  of  the  voice 
to  emphasize  this  determination,  but  anyone  looking  into 
the  drawn,  resolute  face  (the  face  of  the  man  who  had 
been  true  to  his  one  love  for  forty-five  years,  who  had 
been  faitliful  and  trustworthy  through  his  fricndsliip  for 
her,  living,  constant  and  unfultering  in  his  memory  of  her, 
dead,  who  now  looked   into  the  heartless,  beautiful  face 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  293 

of  her  boy,  to  whom  he  had  never  denied  a  wish,  upon 
whom  he  had  lavished  tenderness  for  her  sake,  and  read 
therein  the  cold,  deep-seated  egotism,  the  hollow  nature, 
the  false  soul),  would  never  have  doubted  but  that  he  was 
able,  and  would  be  willing,  to  carry  out  to  the  letter  his 
intentions.  He  was  not  a  man  given  to  idle  threats ;  he 
never  used  a  mean  weapon  ;  his  sense  of  justice  was  correct 
and  keen,  and  he  never  wasted  words. 

Dyke  felt  that  "the  game  was  up,"  but  he  did  not 
relax  a  muscle,  or  change  his  languid  attitude,  or  allow 
his  clear  complexion  to  alter  by  a  shade. 

"Surely,  sir,  you  do  not  imagine  that  I  should  so  far 
forget  my  position  as  to  dispute  your  disposal  of  your  own 
property  !  I  am  under  endless  obligations  to  you  already. 
You  have  called  me  ungrateful ;  perhaps  you  do  me  injus- 
tice there.  I  am  7iot  ungrateful"  (a  little  tremor  in  his 
voice  here,  admirably  done).  "  I  will  bid  you  good-day, 
sir,  until  the  28th.      Farewell." 

He  bowed  low,  and  when  Sir  Philip  raised  his  head 
from  his  hand — he  was  alone.  The  air  still  vibrated  with 
the  melodious,  trainante  voice  of  his  adopted  son  ;  he 
almost  regretted  having  spoken  so  harshly, — "  the  fellow 
evidently  had  some  feeling  hidden  away  under  that  stoical 
indifference.  How  sad  his  voice  sounded,  and  how  it 
trembled  with  emotion  !  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  was  forced 
to  go  off  at  this  unseemly  time;  still,  there  would  be  a 
\.^xx\\)\t fiasco  should  he  f,\il  to  return  before  the  2Sth. 
The  earl  would  have  an  attack  of  apoplexy,  and  the  storm 
would  burst  upon  my  unlucky  head  !" 

Dyke,  alone  on  the  sands,  strode  moodily  back  and 
forth,  with  hands  thrust  into  the  pockets  of  his  shooting- 
coat  and  head  bent  in  meditation. 

At  length  he  drew  forth  a  letter,  in  which  the  Marquise 
de  Courboisie,  in  her  indecipherable  French  griffonnage, 

o  -* 

-0 


294 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


shot  forth  from  behind  the  bulwarks  of  an  inch-deep 
black- border  of  grief  her  last  quiver- full  of  arrows. 
If  they  were  not  poisoned,  they  were  gold-tipped,  there- 
fore quite  as  deadly  to  Dyke  Faucett's  peace-  For  her 
"  pauvre  marquis"  in  consenting  to  die,  at  last,  had  re- 
compensed her  for  her  impatience  by  several  surprises. 
He  died  at  St.  Malo,  in  his  bath-chair  on  the  beach, 
whilst  his  wife  sat  at  a  little  distance,  absorbed  in  the 
fertile  invention  of  Mons.  Balzac,  and  the  sea  sang  a  dirge 
over  him  for  some  fifteen  minutes  before  his  servant  knew 
that  the  weary  soul  was  free. 

He  had  left  ample  instructions  with  his  physician,  who 
telegraphed  at  once  to  Paris  to  his  friends,  the  Baron  de 
R and  the  Marquis  de  H ,  also  to  his  legal  ad- 
visers. They,  in  due  course,  appeared  at  St.  Malo,  and 
were  received  by  the  charming  widow  drowned  in  tears 
and  crape.  The  will  was  read,  and  Pauline  was  com- 
pelled to  bear  a  succession  of  shocks  which  were  far  from 
disagreeable. 

She  found  that  her  husband  had  greatly  underrated  his 
fortune  to  her;  that  instead  of  being  simply  large,  it 
was  princely.     In   addition  to  this  was  the  information 

that  his  only  brother,  the  Comte  de  C ,  who  had  gone 

out,  thirty  years  ago,  to  South  America,  and  had  amassed 
a  fortune  there,  had  died  recently,  a  bachelor,  and  be- 
queathed all  that  he  possessed  to  the  marquis.  Papers 
substantiating  the  fact  of  his  death,  and  his  will,  were 
shown,  and  Pauline's  dread  of  the  long-absent  brother 
returning  a  beggar  on  her  bounty,  was  forever  dispelled. 

After  the  reading  of  the  wills  and  the  necessary  discus- 
sion with  the  lawyers,  the  bereaved  marquise  announced 
herself  too  ill  to  travel.  The  gallant  gentlemen  all  de- 
clared it  would  be  very  wrong  for  her  to  attempt  to  make 
any  further  exertion  after  her  heroic  devotion  to  her  poor 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  295 

husband  and  the  severe  shock  she  had  sustained  in  his 
decease.  They  would  attend  to  everything  :  accompany 
the  remains  to  Paris  and  see  them  interred  with  all  due 
honor  in  the  family  vault.  Little  Mignonne,  whom  she  had 
left  with  a  friend  in  Brittany,  should  be  informed  imme- 
diately of  her  sad  loss,  and  as  soon  as  her  mourning  was 
completed  should  meet  her  mamma  en  route  to  Paris. 

"In  a  fortnight  I  shall  be  quite  able  to  travel,  I  trust," 
she  murmured,  gently,  "and  better  to  thank  you  all,  dear 
friends,  for  your  goodness  to  such  a  desolate  creature  as 
myself." 

And  as  the  "dear  friends"  kissed  the  slender  hand  of 
the  "desolate  creature"  with  an  income  of  one  million 
francs,  they,  one  and  all,  thought  her  too  divine  to  be 
left  on  that  bleak  shore  alone. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

It  was  wonderful  to  see  how  rapidly  animation  returned 
to  the  languid  form  and  face  of  the  widow  when  the  last 
echo  of  the  carriage-wheels  sounded  through  the  porte- 
cochere,  bearing  away  from  her  sight  her  obsequious  legal 
advisers  and  her  sycophantic  friends. 

Springing  from  her  recumbent  position  on  the  lounge 
before  an  untasted  breakfast,  and  ringing  the  bell,  she 
ordered  a  comfortable  dejeuner  a  la  fourchette,  and,  fling- 
ing wide  the  shades,  opened  her  windows  and  stepped  out 
upon  the  balcony  in  the  broad  glare  of  noon.  What 
dtlicious,  long  inhalations  of  freedom  she  took  in  with 
every  breath !  How  the  light  came  back  to  her  eyes, 
and  the  color  to  her  clear,  dark  cheek,  as  she  stood  there 
gazing  out  over  the  illimitable  sea! 


296  THE  MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 

"Ah,"  she  sighed,  "  how  happy  would  I  be  now  did 
I  not  love  this  cold-hearted  Englishman  !  With  my  free- 
dom, my  beauty,  and  my  wealth,  I  could  be  queen  of 
society  in  Paris  !  Quel  inalheur  that  I  ever  met  you, 
monsieur ;  that,  spite  of  all  /  have,  I  still  stand  here, 
straining  my  eyes  and  blistering  my  skin  in  the  sun, 
gazing  across  this  cruel  sea  which  lies  between  us  !  Quelle 
fatalife  que  V amour  P^  And  she  hummed  lightly,  as  she 
re-entered  her  boudoir, — 

"  En  I'amour  si  rien  n'cst  amer, 
Qu'on  est  sot  de  ne  pas  aimer  ! 
Si  tout  Test  au  degre  supreme, 
Quand  est  sot  alors  que  Ton  aime !" 

and  seated  herself  at  once  at  her  escritoire,  where  she 
concocted  a  Machiavellian  epistle,  which  covered  its 
thorns  with  flower-wreaths  and  its  threats  with  kisses. 

Through  the  English  Court  Journal  she  had  heard  of 
Dyke's  arrival  at  Ryde  with  his  yacht.  (She  took  most 
of  the  English  May-fair  journals  to  keep  herself  au 
courant  with  the  movements  of  her  friends.)     She  also 

saw  a  notice  of  the  Earl  and  Countess ,  with  Lady 

Florence  and  her  brother,  having  arrived  at  Ventnor, 
She  was  quick-witted  enough  to  be  little  surprised  when 
the  announcement  of  the  approaching  marriage  of  the 
Lady  Florence  to  Mr.  Faucett  appeared  in  The  Queen; 
arranged  to  take  place  at  Ventnor  on  the  2Sth  of  that 
month. 

Not  a  moment  was  to  be  lost.  Dyke  should  be  drawn 
cleverly  out  of  that  net  into  another  more  secure  in  its 
meshes.  The  strongest  possible  incentive  had  been  given 
to  her  determination, — another  tuoman  had  secured  him 
(as  she  thought)  ;  that  cold,  haughty  Florence  must  be 
taught  that  she  could  not  poach  upon  a  French  siren's 


THE  MILLS   OF   TILE    CODS. 


297 


preserves  with  impunity.  And  so  the  letter  was  written  : 
every  word  weighed  carefully  in  that  diplomatic  little 
head  ;  never  a  hint  of  any  other  engagement  or  a  sus- 
picion of  the  existence  of  Lady  Florence, — only  a 
pathetic  appeal  in  her  loneliness,  an  entreaty  that  he 
should  come  to  her  in  her  desolation.  With  just  two 
lines  in  postscript,  veiled  in  tenderness,  to  say  that  should 
he  not  be  able  to  come  to  her,  she  would  find  the  air  of 
the  Isle  of  Wight  necessary  to  her  health,  '■'■  and  come  to 
Jiimr 

To  this,  Faucett,  groaning  in  spirit,  had  returned  an 
equally  diplomatic  reply,  evading  the  invitation  with 
masterly  adroitness,  hoping  to  meet  her  in  Paris  in  Jan- 
uary, etc. 

For  once  he  had  miscalculated  the  power  of  his  oppo- 
nent. A  letter  by  return  post,  in  which  the  "griffes" 
were  plainly  discernible  under  the  velvet  skin,  had  the 
effect  of  proving  this  fact  to  his  entire  (//^satisfaction. 

"You  'hope  to  meet  me  in  Paris  in  January,'  you 
say,  moil  ami,'"  (she  wrote), — "after  the  honeymoon  has 
waned,  I  conclude  (for  the  news  of  your  anticipated  nup- 
tials has  reached  me)  ;  but  you  will  pardon  me  if  I  find  it, 
for  the  first  time,  impossible  to  agree  Avith  you. 

''  jEcoutcs  done,  cheri !  you  are  a  man  of  the  world,  and 
as  such  I  meet  you  on  equal  ground  ;  let  us  be  done  with 
sentimentality  and  be  reasonable.  You  are  engaged  to 
marry  a  woman  who  does  not  love  you,  and  who  will  not 
suit  you  the  least  in  the  world  ;  to  settle  down  in  your 
foggy  England,  drowse  away  your  life  as  a  country  squire, 
growing  too  stout  even  for  the  hunt  (sole  amusement  of 
that  triste  pays),  or  you  will  be  forced  into  Parliament, 
condemned  to  spend  the  remainder  of  your  days  listening 
to  the  hum-drum  orations  of  your  port-fuddled  aristocracy. 
The  very  thought  of  it  m' ctouffe  ! 


29S  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

"  Now,  mon  chcri,  I  would  be  ungrateful  indeed  did  I 
not  hold  very  dear  your  repeated  assurances  of  attachment 
to  my  unworthy  self;  and  I  feel  sure  that  I  need  not  recall 
to  your  recollection  a  certain  evening  at  'Grantly,'  and 
the  pledge  you  then  gave  me  of  fidelity  !  I  have  it  still, 
with  the  letter  which  accompanied  it;  and,  although  I 
prize  it  beyond  all  other  possessions,  should  I  not  see  you 
before  this  day  week,  I  shall  feel  bound  to  convey  it 
by  trusty  messenger  to  the  hand  of  my  successor,  the 
Lady  Florence  Eliesmere. 
"Accept,  I  pray  thee,  the  assurance  of  my  devotion. 

"Ta  Pauline." 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

PERCIVAL   TYRRELL   TO    ANNE    OGILVIE. 

"  New  York, 


"Your  friend  Martin  Luther  tells  us,  'The  human 
heart  is  like  a  millstone  in  a  mill :  when  you  put  wheat 
under  it,  it  turns  and  grinds,  and  converts  the  wheat  into 
flour;  if  no  wheat  comes  to  it,  it  still  turns;  but  then 
it  is  itself  \\.  grinds  and  slowly  wears  away.'  So  was  it 
with  me,  until  the  arrival  of  that  quaint  little  letter,  from 
which  I  have  ground  much  useful  and  pleasant  knowledge, 
finding  therein  the  germ  of  my  'staff  of  life'  in  all  the 
future  years.  For,  Anne,  even  in  the  coy  shyness  of  your 
careful  phrases  I  could  see  the  true  heart  beating,  and  the 
little  hand  I  have  sought  so  long  held  out  to  me  at  last ! 
Is  it  not  thus  we  stand  together?  Nothing  else  in  your 
gift  would  content  me  now;  naught  in  the  gift  of  the 
whole  world  would  be  able  to  purchase  even  the  hope  of 
such  happiness  from  me  ! 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS.  299 

"I  cannot  write  love-letters ;  perhaps  because  I/c^/them. 
You  tell  me  you  are  about  to  leave  the  family  of  the 
Countess  d'Hauteville,  and  give  me  a  new  address.  But 
you  do  not  state  wherefore,  or  what  your  present  plans 
are.  Of  your  future  ones  we  shall  talk  together  when  I 
return  to  England,  which  will  be  before  the  'Yule'  is 
lighted  or  the  mistletoe  hung. 

"I  should  like  you  to  know  this  country,  and  riiy 
countrymen  and  women;  not  the  cock-crowing,  'woman's 
rights,'  'man  and  brother'  American;  nor  the  jewelry- 
bedizened,  I^indley-Murray-annihilating  'shoddy'  of  Con- 
tinental touring ;  nor  the  irrepressible  tobacco-chewing 
Yankee,  who  dins  his  'reckons'  and  'guesses'  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  Yankee  Doodle  and  Hail  Columbia  in 
a  maddening  fashion  into  one's  every  tortured  sense; 
but,  Anne,  I  should  like  you,  with  your  deep-seeing  eyes 
and  your  far-reaching  comprehensiveness,  to  know  this 
vigorous  offspring  of  old  Mother  England.  The  America 
of  Calhoun  and  Webster  and  Clay,  of  Longfellow  and 
Hawthorne  and  Emerson  and  Irving ;  the  America  which 
your  Chatham,  who  was  said  'to  know  nothing  per- 
fectly but  Barrow's  "Sermons"  and  Spenser's  "Fairie 
Queene,"  '  was  wise  and  just  and  far-seeing  enough  to 
defend  with  his  'mighty'  pen. 

"  How  surprised  you  would  be  at  the  natural  wonders  of 
the  country, — the  enormous  lakes,  the  mighty  rivers,  the 
prairie,  and  the  forest !  how  amused  at  the  '  learned  igno- 
rance' of  its  people !  (Tocqueville  says,  '  There  is  no 
country  so  celebrated  for  so  few  men  of  great  learning, 
and  so  few  ignorant  men,  as  America;')  and  how  delighted 
would  you  be  with  some  of  those  'few'  cultured  ones  in 
whom  we  take  pride, — among'our  forty  millions  of  edu- 
cated people ! 

"  How  satirically  you  would  handle  our  pet  weakness, 


^oo  THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

conceit !  (Inherited  from  our  Puritan  and  Cavalier  ancestry ! 
for,  altliough  German,  Celtic,  Danish,  and  other  blood 
has  inevitably  infused  itself  in  our  veins,  we  prefer  to  trace 
back  all  our  small  vices  and  foibles  to  the  fundamental 
basis  of  our  nationality.  And  any  Englishman  will  recog- 
nize the  transmitted  tendency  to  a  national  vanity  and  a 
bombastic  self-laudation.) 

"Let  us  hope  that  this  'acorn  in  our  young  brows  will 
not  grow  to  be  an  oak  in  our  old  heads,'  and  so  overshadow 
us  with  a  mental  and  moral  blight. 

"  We  have  a  pretty  society  in  New  York  ;  the  men  are 
rarely  visible  out  of  Wall  Street,  therefore  they  need  not 
be  mentioned  ;  the  ladies  are  oi  joUe  tourmire, — grace- 
ful, delicate,  generally  uninteresting;  but  one  might  apply 
to  them  the  description  of  Russian  society, — de  toiitcs 
les  facultes  de  V intelligence,  la  seule  qiion  estime  ici,  c'  est 
le  tact ;  for  truly  in  savoir-vivre  and  gracious  tact  they 
have  no  rival.  There  is  beauty,  but  little  soul ;  brilliancy, 
but  no  depth ;  pedantry  is  abhorred,  and  the  faintest 
shade  of  blue  in  one's  liose  is  considered  mauvais  genre. 

"Judge,  then,  how  eagerly  I  shall  watch  for  your  letters; 
which,  if  they  be  (as  they  should)  part  of  you,  will  alone 
satisfy  my  soul  until  I  come  to  crown  you  'My  Queen!' 

"Percy  Tvrrell." 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


301 


CHAPTER   IX. 

DORA    FAIRFAX    TO    RONALD    BUCHANAN. 

"  Rue  Bergere,  St.  Denis,  September  22. 

"You  reproach  me  with  an  'undue  reticence,'  and 
*a  prim  setting  forth  of  events  in  the  style  of  Goldsmith's 
"Vicar  of  Wakefield," — matter  of  fact,  but  eminently  un- 
satisfying,'— in  my  letters  to  you. 

"  How  readily  you  discern,  through  the  flimsy  veil  of 
language,  the  effort  it  costs  me  to  write  according  to  the 
dictates  of  those  cold  moralists, — Right  and  Reason  ! 

"Only  by  the  delight  even  these  grim  skeletons  of 
letters  give  me  each  week,  can  I  gauge  the  joy  it  would 
be  to  follow  your  command  and  write  freely  as  I  think. 

"  But  the  trivial  details  of  my  prosaic  lite,  my  daily 
walks  with  Marian  and  faithful  Jacques,  varied  by  sketch- 
ing and  botanizing,  and  the  innumerable  contes  of  our 
French  Hercules  (in  which  he  always  figures  as  the  hero), 
are  not  brilliant  materials  for  an  entertaining  correspond- 
ence, and  my  delicate  health  and  rigorous  seclusion  afford 
no  other. 

"I  dreamed  last  night  of  my  dear  father.  So  vividly 
did  I  see  him  smile  and  stretch  out  his  arms  to  me,  that 
all  this  day  has  been  clouded  by  a  new  sense  of  loss  and 
loneliness.  It  was  sweet  to  me,  even  in  a  dream,  to  creep 
into  the  shelter  of  those  fond  arms,  and  lay  my  weary 
head  upon  the  breast  that  pillowed  it  so  often ;  for,  dear 
friend, 

"  '  My  feet  are  wearied,  and  my  hands  are  tired. 
My  heart  oppressed ; 
And  I  desire,  what  I  have  long  desired, 
Rest,  only  rest !' 

26 


302 


THE   MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 


Tell  me,  might  not  this  dream  have  come  to  me  as  a 
messenger  of  peace  ?  Is  the  '  sleep  which  He  giveth  His 
beloved'  to  be  mine  at  last?  Ah,  my  friend,  when  I 
awoke  to  the  &ct2.xy  facts  of  my  existence,  I  cried  out  in 
despair  for  the  sleep  which  knows  no  waking  !  Do  not 
censure  me.  Your  letter  of  yesterday  convinced  me 
overwhelmingly  that  //  would  be  far  better  for  you  were  I 
dead. 

"  I  begin  to  wonder  at  the  tenacity  of  life  in  my  frail 
body.  Marian  is  the  pulse  within  my  heart  which  keeps 
it  beating.  Were  it  not  for  her, — my  precious  one, — I 
could,  like  Mozart,  with  joy  compose  my  own  requiem, — 

"  '  The  burden  of  my  days  is  hard  to  bear, 
But  God  knows  best ; 
And  I  have  prayed, — but  vain  has  been  my  prayer, — 
For  rest,  for  rest!' 

"I  fear  you  will  be  vexed  with  me  for  giving  way  to 
the  sadness  which  sometimes  colors  everything  with  its 
dark  shadow,  but  you  will  forgive  me  when  you  remember 
that  it  was  on  this  day,  one  year  ago,  that  my  beloved 
father  was  taken  from  me. 

"I  have  not  been  able  to  give  singing-lessons  to  my 
pupils  to-day,  or  to  listen  calmly  to  the  chatter  of  my 
landlady ;  but,  from  early  morning,  Marian  and  I  have 
been  wandering  through  the  forest  (where  Jacques  served 
our  frugal  breakfast),  and  where  the  spirit  of  the  dead 
seemed  to  whisper  in  the  sighing  of  the  wind. 

"  And  now,  looking  out  in  the  quiet  evening  from  my 
window,  I  can  feel  thankful  that  he  is  at  rest ;  that  his 

"  '  Part  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 
The  circuit  of  the  summer-hills 
Is,  that  his  grave  is  green  !' 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  303 

"You  will  thank  your  sister  for  her  loving  letter  to  me. 
In  a  few  days  I  will  be  more  able  to  answer  it.  When  the 
dear  apparition  which  came  to  me  last  night  shall  have 
faded  a  little  before  the  sunshine  of  these  fair  autumn 
days;  when  I  have  forgotten  the  sad  hooting  of  an  owl 
just  outside  my  window,  which  has  filled  me  with  dire 
forebodings  for  weeks  past;  when,  in  short,  1  can  feel 
that  Lydia  will  not  laugh  at  ray  morbid  imaginings,  and 
I  have  grown  peaceful  once  more,  I  shall  write  and  tell 
her  how  dearly  I  prize  her  friendship. 

"  Marian  is  well,  and  thanks  you  for  the  pretty  English 
nursery-tales  you  sent  her, 

<'DORA." 


CHAPTER   X. 


RONALD    BUCHANAN    TO    DORA    FAIRFAX. 

"Woodland  Parsonage,  Sept.  26,  18 . 

''Your  letter,  breathing  such  hopeless  sadness,  such 
weary  impatience  of  life,  has  undermined  the  resolution 
with  which  I  had  fortified  my  promise  to  you. 

"  /  must  see  you  !  Lydia  will  follow  me  immediately 
if  you  are  really  ill,  as  I  suspect  from  your  letter.  She 
will  nurse  and  care  for  you  most  tenderly. 

"  I  have  not  been  al)le  to  write  you  before  to-day.  All 
the  pain  of  these  last  three  months  seemed  concentrated 
since  those  sad  lines  reached  me. 

"Keep  up  your  courage,  brave  little  Christian  heart; 
let  not  the  angel-wings  droop  which  have  borne  you  aloft 
over  all  your  troubles  without  soiling  the  tiniest  feather. 
In  the  dark  hours  when  the  waves  threaten  to  overwhelm 
you,  remember  the  reply  St.  Theresa  made  to  those  who 


304  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

compassionated  her  helplessness,  her  poverty,  her  loneli- 
ness,— 'Theresa  and  two  sous  are  nothing,'  she  said; 
'  but  Theresa,  two  sous,  and  God,  are  all  tilings.' 

"Ronald." 

As  Dora,  with  hands  trembling  from  excess  of  joy, 
folded  and  replaced  in  its  envelope  this  promise  of  a 
happiness  to  which  she  had  not  dared  to  look  forward, 
no  shadow  of  misgiving  darkened  the  brightness  of  that 
blissful  anticipation  during  those  first  moments  when  the 
one  thought  absorbed  her,  that  she  would  see  Ronald  once 
again. 

For  a  brief  space  of  time  she  sat  feeding  her  hungry 
heart  upon  this  hope, — her  eyes  full  of  a  wistful  tender- 
ness, her  hands  lying  with  the  dear  letter  idly  in  her  lap. 
Presently  her  eyes  fell  upon  those  thin,  transparent  hands, 
and  she  noted,  with  a  little  sigh,  their  extreme  attenuation. 
Her  heavy  wedding-ring  had  slipped  almost  off  her  slender 
finger,  and,  as  she  replaced  it,  a  look  of  sudden  pain 
marred  the  brightness  of  her  face,  while  the  bitter  con- 
viction forced  itself  upon  her  that,  just  in  projDortion  to 
the  joy  which  this  letter  seemed  to  pour  into  her  desolate 
life,  was  the  necessity  urgent  for  her  to  brace  herself  to 
reject  the  happiness  it  offered. 

"I  cannot  see  him!"  she  moaned;  "I  cannot!  It 
would  only  make  everything  more  difficult,  and — there  is 
no  use  in  disguising  the  fact — //  would  be  wrong,  and  weak, 

and  selfish.     It  must  not  be.    And  yet "    Great  tears 

rolled  down  over  the  patient  face  and  fell  upon  the  fragile 
hands,  while  Dora  fought  anew  with  temptation  the  sorest 
which  had  yet  assailed  her. 

Long  before  Marian  had  crept  into  the  shadowy  room, 
where  the  twilight  had  deepened  into  night,  and  nestled 
herself  in  the  loving  arms  which  seemed  to  hold  her  with 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  305 

a  twofold  tenderness,  Dora  had  decided  that  she  must 
avoid  the  meeting  which  awaited  her  in  the  next  few  days, 
even,  if  necessary,  by  flight. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

The  yacht  "  lo"  lies  at  anchor  in  the  port  of  St.  Malo, 
off  the  coast  of  France. 

It  is  a  superb  night,  the  sea  calm  as  a  lake,  gilded  by 
the  full  radiance  of  the  moon.  Like  a  huge  silver  swan, 
the  "lo"  rests  tranquilly  on  the  golden  waves,  holding 
herself  slightly  aloof,  like  a  proud  young  queen,  from  the 
crowded  assemblage  of  more  plebeian  shipping,  struggling 
for  precedence  at  the  mouth  of  the  harbor. 

Touched  into  quaint  beauty  by  the  moon-rays,  the  old 
fortified  French  town  lay  slumbering  in  the  Ranee's 
Mouth,  although  the  ancient  clock  in  the  tower  of  the 
Cathedral  had  not  yet  sounded  forth  ten  o'clock. 

But  there  was  little  fashion  in  St.  Malo,  and  the  hard 
working  "hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water,."  and 
the  net-makers,  whose  ideas  never  soared  above  marine 
tackle,  were  primitive  in  their  hours,  as  in  their  tastes. 

Strangers  rarely  lingered  long  here ;  after  a  glance  at 
the  house  where  Chateaubriand  was  born,  and  at  the 
island  w^here  he  lies  buried,  they  were  generally  glad  to 
take  the  diligence  for  the  beautiful  drive  to  Avranches  and 
St.  Lo,  and  to  escape  from  the  dreary  streets  crowded 
with  squalid  but  cheerful  specimens  of  the  embryo  sailor 
and  fishmonger. 

And  yet  the  brilliant,  courted  Marquise  de  Courboisie 
had  contrived  lo  exist  in  this  out-of-the-way  old  sea-port 

26* 


3o6  THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

town,  and  her  apartment  on  the  first  floor  of  the  Hotel  de 
France  was  luxurious  in  its  appointments  as  if  situated  in 
the  Faubourg  St.  Germain. 

There  are  women  who  seem  to  exhale  an  atmosphere  of 
comfort,  luxury,  elegance,  in  which  alone  they  seem  able 
to  exist,  under  all  circumstances,  abroad,  as  well  as  in 
their  own  sumptuously-appointed  homes. 

To  their  cultivated  senses  all  ugliness  is  abhorrent ;  it 
creates  a  physical  distress,  which  is  restless  until  tact  and 
invention  come  to  the  rescue,  harmonize  colors,  drape 
angles,  tone  down  glaring  deformities,  cover,  in  short, 
with  the  imj^alpable  veil  of  refinement  those  monstrous 
defects  of  taste  in  which  the  vulgar  soul  delights. 

"  Chez  jnoi,^^  to  the  belle  marquise,  meant  comfort, 
and  '■'■  chez  inoV  accompanied  her  wherever  she  moved; 
and  so,  when  Dyke  Faucett  was  ushered  into  her  salons 
on  this  night  of  his  arrival,  he  could  scarcely  realize,  as  he 
passed  under  the  silken /(?r//^r^  into  the  brilliantly-lighted 
suite  of  rooms,  that  he  was  not  once  more  in  Paris. 

With  a  glance  he  took  in  the  ensemble, — the  delicately 
tinted  walls  hung  here  and  there  with  a  glowing  Claude  or  a 
cool  sea-view  of  Turner,  the  filmy-lace  curtains;  the  \\xxm- 
XKOwifaiiieuils,  the  graceful  tables  covered  with  objects  of 
art  and  bijouterie  oi  ^\  descriptions;  the  profusion  of  hot- 
house flowers,  the  tropical  foliage  and  creepers,  with  here 
and  there  a  gleaming  statuette  hidden  amid  the  green. 

And  one  other  fact  was  patent  to  him  at  that  first 
moment  of  entering. 

With  every  accessory  of  gorgeous  toilette,  of  velvet  and 
lace,  and  jewels  of  unique  design  and  variety,  always 
according  well  with  her  brilliant  style  of  beauty,  never 
had  Pauline  looked  so  entirely  irresistible  as  to-night, 
when  she  swept  swiftly  across  the  room  witli  extended 
hands  to  meet  him,  in  her  black  crape  robe,  which  seemed 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


307 


to  enhance  the  rich  brune  coloring  of  her  complexion, 
and  to  render  dazzling  the  dead  whiteness  of  her  shoul- 
ders, and  the  perfectly  moulded  arms,  on  which  blazed 
diamonds  set  in  black  enamel. 

No  widow's  cap  disfigured  the  contour  of  the  well- 
formed  head,  with  its  crown  of  raven  hair  bound  simply 
with  a  narrow  band  of  black-enameled  gold  clasped  with 
a  single  brilliant  (of  a  size  and  purity  which  could  have 
founded  an  orphan  asylum  in  that  town  swarming  with  the 
fatherless  children  of  mariners,  who,  if  they  were  not 
lost  at  sea,  sometimes  forgot  to  come  back  to  their  native 
town  and  interesting  families). 

In  Pauline's  eyes  flashed  the  light  of  a  great  triumph, 
and  her  exquisite  lips  curved  in  a  victorious  smile  as  she 
drew  Dyke  Faucett  gently  down  by  her  side  on  the  cau- 
seuse,  crying,  joyfully,  "  Allons  !  nous  voild  ensemble  enjin! 
Are  you  not  content,  vion  cher?''' 

How  could  he  be  otherwise,  with  her  beautiful  face 
before  him,  her  silvery  voice  in  his  ears,  her  great  dia- 
monds flashing  light  all  about  her? 

"Truly  yes,  Pauline,"  he  replied,  looking  his  admira- 
tion; "and  you  are  more  bewitching  than  ever.  Com- 
ment '  is  this  the  face  of  mourning  and  desolation  you  led 
me  to  expect?" 

In  a  moment  a  pensive  expression  crept  over  her  laugh- 
ing features:  she  sighed  heavily.  "  Ah,  yes;  you  are  right, 
it  is  very  naughty  of  me  to  smile  so  soon  ;  but,  que  voulez- 
vous  ?  I  am  so  happy,  so  glad  to  see  you  again  !"  And  as 
she  said  this  she  caught  up  impetuously  one  of  Dyke's 
gloves  which  lay  beside  his  hat  on  a  table,  and  pressed  it 
to  her  lips. 

Dyke  laughed,  while  a  wi(  ked  gleam  came  into  his  eyes. 
"What  a  child  you  are,  Pauline,  after  all!  Really,  you 
must  begin  to  put  on  dignil\-  with  your  widow's  weeds; 


3o8 


THE  MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 


which,  by  the  way,  are  excessively  becoming."  And  then 
followed  some  more  earnest  talk  ;  talk  all  arranged  before- 
hand on  each  side,  and  ending,  as  all  such  invariably  does, 
in  accomplishing  precisely  the  reverse  of  what  was  antici- 
pated. 

Pauline  had  poured  out,  as  she  had  intended,  a  recital 
of  the  various  inducements  she  had  to  offer  wherewith  to 
tempt  Dyke  to  break  faith  with  Lady  Florence,  even  at 
this  late  hour;  determined,  at  all  hazards,  that  this  should 
be  the  result  of  her  machinations.  But  she  had  under- 
estimated her  attractions,  or  she  had  accredited  Dyke 
with  a  higher  sense  of  honor  than  he  possessed. 

At  the  conclusion  of  their  interview  she  found  him, 
figuratively,  at  her  feet,  utterly  regardless  of  every  claim 
upon  him  elsewhere. 

And  Dyke^  who  had  parted  with  the  proud  high- 
spirited  girl  whom  he  had  bound  himself  to  marry  with 
affectionate  farewell  and  a  promise  to  return  to  claim  her 
hand  on  the  2Sth  of  that  same  month;  Dyke,  who  as- 
sured himself  that  it  was  only  necessary  for  him  to  run 
over  to  the  coast  of  France,  see,  and  reason  with  this  will- 
ful Pauline, — if  needful,  break  with  her  forever, — that  he 
might  fulfill  his  engagement  with  his  fiancee  and  thus 
please  his  guardian,  Lady  Florence,  and  himself;  now,  to 
his  astonishment,  caught  himself  actually  pleading  with 
and  suing  this  beautiful  creature  with  an  income  of  one 
million  francs  per  annum,  as  he  had  never  sued  before  ! 


THE   MILLS    OF  THE    GODS.  309 


CHAPTER    XII. 

The  28th  of  September  dawned  tearfully;  over  the 
lovely  Isle  of  Wight  drooped  a  misty  veil,  impenetrable 
to  the  sun's  rays,  even  had  they  tried  to  pierce  its  foggy 
imperviousness,  which  they  did  not. 

Great  banks  of  leaden-colored  clouds  on  every  side  ;  a 
depressing,  drizzling  rain  falling  upon  the  spirits  of  every- 
body, and  extinguishing  the  faintest  spark  of  merriment ; 
the  sullen  roar  of  the  breakers  as  they  dashed  upon  the 
beach,  and  the  scream  of  the  sea-gull  as  he  hoarsely  threat- 
ened storm,  added  their  melancholy  influences  to  the 
bridal-morning  of  the  Lady  Florence  EUesmere. 

In  a  long  room,  lighted  at  either  end  by  great  oriels, 
shrouded  by  pale-blue  damask  and  lace,  in  a  temperature 
which  would  have  better  suited  the  brilliant  exotics  which 
bent  their  fair  heads  in  the  chill  rain  outside  on  the  bal- 
conies than  the  human  lungs  of  this  pale  creature  who 
shrinks  closely  to  the  open  wood-fire  in  the  soft,  silken 
depths  of  a  low  easy-chair, — screening  her  delicate  face 
with  a  feather  screen  from  the  heat,  to  which  she  grace- 
fully stretches  forth  a  pair  of  tiny  embroidered  brode- 
quins,  Lady  Florence  loses  herself  in  conjecture. 

Enveloped  in  a  white  cashmere  7-obe  de  chambre,  whose 
rose-pink  lining  casts  a  shade  of  color  on  the  white  cheek, 
the  bride-elect  awaits,  languidly,  the  arrival  of  her  brides- 
maids and  her  mother,  that  the  important  toilet  should 
be  begun. 

Of  the  appearance  of  the  groom  at  the  hour  appointed 
for  his  return  she  had  never  for  one  moment  entertained  a 
doubt  in  her  proud  heart.     At  their  parting  he  had  taken 


310 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


her  hand,  and,  looking  full  into  her  eyes,  had  said, 
gravely,  "Florence,  I  need  not  ask  you  if  you  trust  me 
thoroughly.  You  have  given  me  the  highest  proof  of  that 
in  consenting  to  be  my  wife.  It  is  a  great  annoyance  to 
me  to  leave  you  at  this  time,  but  it  is  out  of  my  power  to 
do  otherwise.  Do  you  believe  me  ?"  "  Assuredly,"  she 
had  answered,  without  one  prick  of  conscience.  Could  it 
be  possible  that  any  man  should  willingly  leave  her  during 
the  last  weeks  of  her  engagement  ?  She  felt  sorry  for 
Dyke. 

And  then  he  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  cold 
cheek  tenderly,  whispering,  "However  long  I  may  be 
detained,  dearest,  trust  me  !  I  may  not  return  before  the 
very  day  fixed  for  our  Avedding,  but,  Florence,  my  own, 
you  will  see  me  then,  if  I  live.''  She  trusted  him  without 
the  shadow  of  a  doubt  upon  her  tranquil  heart,  shielded 
by  her  suspicion-proof  amour-propre. 

And  yet,  to  the  uttermost  capacity  of  her  dwarfed  sus-  ■ 
ceptibilities,  Florence  loved  Dyke  Faucett  \  over  her,  as 
over  all  women  whom  he  strove  to  fascinate,  his  influence 
reigned  paramount.  Had  she  not  confessed  in  a  calmly- 
measured  speech  and  with  quickly-beating  pulses  to  her 
mamma,  long  since,  that,  undistinguished  commoner  as  he 
was,  without  other  title  to  renown  than  such  as  it  ac- 
corded to  the  most  rcnommc  of  carpet-knights,  she  pre- 
ferred him  and  his  simple  name  to  a  ducal  coronet  or  a 
superannuated  marquisate  ? 

The  earl  and  his  countess  dared  utter  no  remonstrance, 
however.  Their  ambitious  hopes  writhed  in  the  death- 
agony,  for  Florence,  since  her  infimcy,  had  ruled  the 
household  with  a  rod  of  iron,  through  the  extreme  deli- 
cacy of  her  constitution,  which  could  not  abide  restraint 
or  contradiction. 

Sir  Philip  Standky  had  acted,  loo,  with  a  munificent 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  311 

liberality  in  the  matter  of  settlements,  and  \\\q  fianciallcs 
were  formally  celebrated  in  great  state  prior  to  the  con- 
clusion of  "the  season"  and  their  adjournment  to  the 
Isle  of  Wight. 

Listlessly  she  sat  dreaming  on  in  her  cozy  room ;  a 
slight  shudder  passing  over  her  whenever  she  glanced 
through  the  windows  at  the  dreary  prospect  without;  a 
faint  gleam  of  interest  waking  in  her  eyes  when  they  fell 
occasionally  upon  the  silvery  sheen  of  satin  and  billowy 
waves  of  lace  which  were  extended  in  bridal  splendor 
upon  her  bed,  awaiting  the  hour  to  strike  when  they 
should  deck  the  statue-like  face  and  form  of  the  girl  who 
looked  white  and  cold  and  fragile  as  the  waxen  orange- 
blossoms  which  were  to  crown  her  haughty  head. 

Listlessly,  without  smile  or  blush,  she  greeted  her 
cousins,  who  acted  as  bridesmaids,  the  Honorable  Misses 
Scmerville  ;  languidly  she  held  forward  her  cheek  to  her 
mother's  eager  caress  ;  serenely  she  yielded  herself  to  the 
hands  of  her  maid  to  be  prepared  for  the  hymen ial  sacrifice. 

Only  for  a  moment  a  pink  flush  crept  over  her  cheek, 
— when  her  mother,  consulting  every  five  minutes  her 
watch,  or  the  clock  on  the  chimney-piece,  whispered, 
"Have  you  received  any  letter  or  telegram  from  Mr. 
Faucett,  my  love?     We  have  only  two  hours  to  wait  !" 

She  answered,  petulantly,  "  How  absurd  you  are, 
mamma  !  How  could  Mr.  Faucett  possibly  telegraph  from 
his  yacht,  or  send  a  letter,  except,  indeed,  by  a  carrier- 
pigeon,  which  has  not  yet  arrived?" 

"  I  cannot  conceal  from  you,  my  dearest,"  the  countess 
went  on,  undaunted  by  the  rebuff  for  once,  "that  I  am 
anxious,  very  anxious ;  surely  he  should  have  spared  me 
this  uneasiness." 

Lady  Florence  reared  her  head  proudly,  and  replied, 
coldly, — "  Pray  keep  your  anxious  fears  to  yourself,  my 


-12  THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

dear  mother  ;  they  are  not  especially  gratifying  or  compli- 
mentary to  me,  and  certainly  utterly  groundless." 

"Heaven  grant  it !"  sighed  her  ladyship,  gazing  wist- 
fully from  the  window,  against  whose  pane  now  rattled 
rain  in  fitful  gusts. 

The  guests  were  beginning  to  arrive;  carriage  after 
carriage  rolled  up  and  deposited  its  burden  on  the  velvet 
carpet  spread  out  through  the  garden,  which  separated  the 
entrance  of  their  villa  from  the  road. 

His  lordship,  the  bishop  of  L ,  who  was  to  perform 

the  ceremony,  had  retired  to  his  apartment  to  invest  him- 
self in  the  robes  of  his  office ;  ushers  with  white  favors 
were  bustling  about,  actively  doing  nothing ;  the  brides- 
maids had  overlooked  the  trousseau,  weighed  it  in  the 
balance,  and  enviously  found  it — not  "wanting."  Dyke's 
gifts  had  been  duly  inspected,  and  their  value  appraised  ; 
those  of  the  various  friends  and  members  of  the  family, 
rapturously  admired. 

Nothing  now  remained  to  do  but  struggle  strenuously 
with  the  ten-buttoned  gloves,  striving  to  make  their  nar- 
row proportions  stretch  over  plump  arms  which  never 
"tapered  gently"  since  babyhood.  Elderly  spinsters 
gave  the  last  surreptitious  glance  in  the  mirror  to  ascertain 
whether  the  tint  of  their  noses  had  faded  to  a  rose-tendre, 
and  descended  to  the  drawing-room,  where  they  estab- 
lished themselves  in  the  best  position  for  witnessing  a 
scene  which  they  had  been  too  sensible  to  enact  in  pj-opria 
persona. 

Mothers  of  families  ranged  themselves  where  the  grand 
coup  d' (kH  would  move  them  to  sympathetic  tears,  each 
furnished  with  a  large  handkerchief,  in  a  straw-colored 
hand,  wherewith  to  stem  the  torrent  of  grief  which  invari- 
ably gushes  forth  !  For  although  the  British  matron  is 
proverbially  imperturbable,  and    rarely  relaxes  into  any 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 


313 


demonstration  of  emotion,  the  solemnization  tjf  tlie  wed- 
ding-service inevitably  produces  a  lachrymose  effect,  even 
among  those  who  are  in  nowise  connected  by  ties  of 
blood  or  affection  to  the  bride. 

But  on  this  occasion  the  laced  handkerchiefs  were 
doomed  to  return  in  their  pristine  crispness  to  the  pockets 
of  those  sadly-disappointed  dames,  and  the  patient 
spinsters,  weary  at  last  of  waiting  and  craning  their  necks 
each  time  the  doors  of  the  drawing-room  were  thrown 
open  to  admit  everybody  excepting  the  bridal  party,  were 
fain  to  ejaculate  their  wonder  and  various  surmises  under 
cover  of  their  opera-hoods,  and  in  the  shelter  of  their  own 
broughams,  wending  their  way  steadily  back  to  their 
respective  homes. 

For  the  hour  fixed  for  the  ceremony  struck,  and  Dyke 
Faucett  had  not  appeared  ;  a  half-hour's  grace  had  been 
accorded, — still  no  tidings  ;  people  began  to  murmur  and 
look  significantly  at  each  other.  Another  thirty  minutes 
passed,  and  then  Florence  EUesmere,  surrounded  by  her 
bridesmaids  and  family  in  an  upper  room  (her  own  the 
least  agitated  face  among  them  all),  calmly,  and  with  a 
faint  little  laugh,  raised  from  her  head  the  snowy  crown, 
saying,  as  she  laid  it  aside,  "There  will  be  no  wedding 
here  to-day,  my  friends  !  '  A  laggard  in  love'  is  the  one 
man  of  all  others  who  can  never  wed  with  Florence 
EUesmere  !  It  is  all  over,  forever,  between  Mr.  Faucett 
and  myself.  Should  he  kneel  at  my  feet,  this  moment, 
he  would  have  no  other  answer.  And  now,  pray  leave 
me  ;  I  would  prefer  to  be  alone  !" 

There  was, not  the  slightest  tremble  in  her  clear  voice, 
nor  the  suggestion  of  a  tear  in  the  cold  blue  e\es ;  just  a 
faint  rose-tinge  on  the  cheeks  and  a  little  curl  about  the 
delicate  lips  told  t)f  her  deailly  wound. 

Silently   they   passed,   one    after    the    ijthcr,    from    the 
o  -7 


314 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS, 


chamber,  one  or  two  of  them  just  pressing  their  lips  in  a 
mute  sympathy  to  Florence's  cheek,  for  which  she  made' 
no  other  acknowledgment  than  the  faint  smile  which 
still  lingered  on  her  face. 

At  last  her  mother  alone  stood  beside  her,  with  an- 
guish written  upon  every  feature.  But  when  she  attempted 
to  take  her  child  in  her  arms  and  solace  herself  by  plen- 
tiful weeping  over  her  stricken  idol,  Florence  gently 
disengaged  herself  from  the  moist  embrace,  and  said, 
without  a  quaver  in  her  soft  tones,  "  Mamma,  you  must 
go  too;  I  wish  to  be  alone;"  and  then,  a  little  wearily: 
"Ah,  if  I  could  only  convince  you  that  this  grief  is 
most  humiliating  to  me ;  that  all  is  as  it  should  be.  My 
heart  is  not  broken, — believe  me  !  Ha  !  What  can  this 
be?"  And  with  a  sudden  spring,  which  contrasted  strangely 
with  her  words  and  her  habitual  languid  grace,  she  reached 
the  window,  as  a  horse,  hard-ridden,  stopped  suddenly 
before  the  door,  and  a  man  sprang  to  the  ground,  carrying 
in  one  hand  a  telegram. 

While  and  breathless,  but  outwardly  still,  the  poor  girl 
stood  like  a  statue  of  expectation,  with  eyes  strained  in 
their  gaze,  fixed  upon  the  open  door  of  her  room,  through 
which  her  mother  had  rushed,  in  uncontrollable  impa- 
tience, to  hear  the  news. 

What  an  eternity  of  suspense  lay  in  those  few  moments ! 
how  the  pearly  teeth  clinched,  and  the  delicate  hand 
bruised  itself  in  a  frenzied  clutch  at  the  bronze  quiver  of 
a  Cupid  which  held  back  the  curtain  from  the  oriel !  ■ 
And  when,  at  last,  steps  were  heard  ascending  the  stair- 
case, and  Sir  Philip  Standley  entered,  with  ghastly  face 
and  trcml)ling  hand,  in  wliich  still  rested  the  terrible 
message  wliich  had  so  shocked  him,  Florence  drew  herself 
up  to  her  full  heiglit  and  awaited  the  crowning  blow  with 
majestic  Lalumess. 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  315 

But  she  had  not  dreamed  of  the  truth.  Treachery,  dis- 
honor, unpardonable  forgetfuhiess  or  neglect,  she  could 
have  met  with  a  sublime  scorn  and  an  outward  indiffer- 
ence; but  when  Sir  Philip  quietly  answered  her  cold, 
authoritative  "The  triitli,  if  you  please,  without  reserve, 
and  immediately,"  by  placing  in  her  hand  the  telegram 
he  held  crushed  in  his,  and  her  eyes  had  glanced  over  its 
contents,  there  rang  throughout  that  festively-garnished 
villa  a  cry  so  terrible  in  its  anguish  that  in  every  heart  it 
found  an  echo,  from  the  stateliest  dame  among  the  guests 
to  the  tiniest  page  in  the  servants'  hall. 

As  Sir  Philip  raised  in  his  arms  the  slender  figure  in 
its  gorgeous  bridal-robe  and  laid  her  on  the  bed  paler 
than  the  pearls  about  her  throat,  his  heart  smote  him  for 
a  too-ready  belief  in  her  coldness  and  apparent  heartless- 
ness. 

He  looked  at  her,  lying  there  like  a  broken  lily,  and 
the  vision  of  his  dead  love  swam  before  his  tearful  eyes 
as  he  sank  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed,  bowing  his  head 
with  an  irrepressible  groan  as  that  never-fading  memory 
stirred  in  his  heart  with  a  newly-added  bitterness  of 
grief. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

The  sun  was  smiling. serenely,  bathing  the  rugged  coast 
of  France  with  its  cheery  glow;  the  white  sails  of  the 
ships,  the  spars  and  the  rigging,  stood  out  clearly  in  the 
transparent  atmosphere,  while  the  gilt  decorations  of  a  gay 
little  pinnace,  wliich  was  being  piilhd  into  shore  by  four 
English  sailors,  glillcred  in  the  sunlight. 


3i6  THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

A  (qw  moments  before  the  pinnace  had  put  off  from  the 
yacht  "  lo,"  still  lying  somewhat  aloof  in  solitary  grand- 
eur, a  carriage  containing  a  lady,  closely  veiled,  and  her 
maid,  drove  swiftly  through  the  town  of  St.  Malo  to  the 
point  of  embarkation  on  the  wharf.  There  they  soon 
transferred  themselves,  by  the  aid  of  the  gallant  skipper, 
and  with  many  suppressed  little  shrieks  of  terror,  to  the 
exquisitely-appointed  barge,  and  were  pulled  gently  out 
towards  the  yacht,  where,  standing  at  the  gangway  to  wel- 
come them,  they  perceived  Dyke  Faucett.  As  she  threw 
back  her  veil  a  beaming  smile  parted  Pauline's  lips,  and 
she  caught  the  hand  he  extended  with  a  murmured  ejacu- 
lation of  delight,  while  Dyke,  tranquil,  pale  and  calm  as 
ever,  assisted  her  on  board,  and  directed  all  things  for  her 
comfort  and  convenience. 

While  the  yacht  was  getting  up  steam,  and  Pauline's 
maid  was  attending  to  the  arrangement  of  those  indis- 
pensable auxiliaries  to  a  lady's  toilette,  and  unpacking  as 
much  of  the  luggage  as  would  be  needed  during  a  cruise 
of  several  weeks,  her  mistress,  leaning  on  Dyke's  arm, 
paced  the  snow-white  deck,  admiring  everything  with 
childish  glee,  clapping  her  hands  and  trilling  forth  musical 
laughter.  And  when  he  took  her  below,  and  she  saw  the 
luxuriously-fitted  cabin,  with  its  delicate  frescoes,  and  its 
gold-colored  damask  divans  and  lounges,  its  innumerable 
mirrors,  and  its  piano,  its  book-case,  and  card-tables, — all 
made  of  the  beautiful  wood  mosaic, — and  afterwards, 
when  she  penetrated  still  further  into  compartments,  each 
furnished  with  the  same  magnificence,  her  delight  knew 
no  bounds. 

Her  own  state-room,  lined  with  wliite  satin,  carpeted 
with  a  great  white  bear-skin,  with  all  its  decorations  in 
silver  and  ])carl,  enchanted  her.  No  single  th.ought  of 
the  proud  heart  of  tlic  woman   fur  whom   this  had  been 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  317 

designed  in  its  bridal  outfit  crossed  the  mind  of  the 
triumphant  Pauline,  who  had  accomplished  the  sum  total 
of  her  wishes  the  previous  day,  and  married  Dyke  Faucett 
in  the  quiet  little  Church  of  St.  Sulpice  in  that  forlorn  old 
sea-port  town. 

It  was  to  save  ce  cher  Dyke  from  a  fate  worse  than 
death — his  marriage  with  a  woman  he  did  not  love — that 
she  had  consented  to  sacrifice  the  conventionalities  and 
secure  him  from  further  persecution  ;  and  so  she  had 
yielded  to  his  persuasions,  and  they  were  together  at  last. 

Then,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Pauline  almost 
learned  the  true  taste  of  real  happiness.  Many  of  her 
little  petulant  ways  left  her ;  she  grew  softer  and  gentler 
to  her  maid,  and  all  about  her, — under  the  influence  of  an 
unruffled  content. 

And  Dyke  also  experienced  a  bicn-ctre  which  had  been 
foreign  to  him  for  some  time  :  Pauline  was  irresistibly 
bewitching ;  the  sea  was  calm  and  the  wind  fair  ;  his 
cook  was  a  cordon-bleu,  and  his  conscience  was  numb ; 
what  more  could  the  gods  bestow? 

And  noAV  they  were  out  at  sea  ;  the  outline  of  the  coast 
was  fading  from  sight ;  the  green  hills  were  no  longer 
visible,  and  a  soft  autumnal  haze  settled  down  over  the 
dark  line  by  which,  only,  they  could  distinguish  where 
France  lay. 

It  was  like  a  dream,  Pauline  said,  so  tranquil  were  the 
sea  and  the  sky,  and  so  still  was  everything.  And  when 
through  the  pale  grayness  of  the  evening  the  stars  came 
out,  and  Dyke  watched  them  mirror  themselves  in  the  sea, 
I  wonder  if  a  vision  of  the  past  glided  before  him,  and 
he  thought  of  tliat  /ofig-ago,  when  he  a/id  anotJicr  had 
eazed  together  at  these  same  stars,  reflected  in  another 
sea?  If  it  did,  he  thrust  it  aside  as  he  would  have  done 
a  disagreeable  insect,  and  in  the  lively  chatter  of  Pauline, 

27* 


31 8        THE  MILLS   OF   THE    CODS. 

her  witty  repartee  and  caroling  French  chansons,  he  soon 
distracted  his  thoughts  from  all  disturbing  reminiscences. 
Pauline  had  resumed  her  brilliant  toilettes, — and  never 
had  Hebe  herself  looked  more  utterly  beguiling  than  this 
beautiful  creature,  as  she  filled  Dyke's  glass  with  ruby 
wine  during  their  tete-a-tete  dinners  and  the  delightful 
little  suppers  with  which  their  chef  regaled  them ;  for  in 
the  glow  of  happiness  which  added  to  her  beauty  Pauline 
grew  young  again. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

Sunny  days  and  starlit  nights  followed  each  other  in 
swift  succession,  and  out  from  the  treacherous  Bay  of 
Biscay  the  "  lo"  emerged  safely  upon  the  broad  bosom 
of  the  Mediterranean. 

They  stood  one  morning  together.  Dyke  Faucett  and 
Pauline,  leaning  over  the  taffrail,  talking  in  low,  musical 
murmurs  to  the  accompaniment  of  rippling  laughter,  look- 
ing out  on  the  sapphire-colored  waves  sparkling  in  the 
sunlight. 

Never  "since  the  morning  stars  sang  together"  had 
that  deceitful  Delilah  of  seas  smiled  more  seductively  than 
to-day,  as  she  sunned  herself,  dim]^ling  all  over  under  the 
ardent  kisses  of  faithful,  unsated  Phoebus. 

Ah,  fair,  tideless  sea  ! 

"  Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow; 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now !" 

blue  and  laughing  in  the  sunshine  of  today,  as  when  thy 
waves  lapped  caressingly  the  four  great  empires  of  the 
earth  in  tlieir  noontide  glory  (now,  alas  !  standing  grim 
and  stark,  like  skeletons,  amid  the  ashes  of  dead  Ambi- 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  319 

tion  !), — clasping  in  fickle  embrace  the  storied  lands  of 
classic  lore ;  kissing  as  of  old  the  blossoming  shores  of 
^gina,  of  Pirajus,  of  stately  Corinth  ;  cociuetting  still 
with  the  blooming  triplets,  Capri  and  her  sisters.  Are 
there  no  tears  under  those  surface-smiles?  and  are  thy 
briny  depths  not  sometimes  shaken  with  the  sob  of  woe? 
When  the  zephyrs  bring  thee  a  sigh  from  crushed  Attica, 
from  snow-capped  Liakura,  or  the  plains  of  Marathon,  or 
when  a  plaint  from  that  vaster  sepulchre  of  the  majesty  of 
Man — the  East — reaches  thee,  dost  thou  not  rise  up  in  thy 
wrath  and  roar  like  a  lioness  robbed  of  her  young,  re- 
fusing consolation  because  /hey  arc  not?  Alas  for  thy 
whelps !  Cruelly  entreated  have  they  been  !  In  the  ruins 
of  Babylon,  wild  foxes,  owls,  and  serpents  make  their  hab- 
itation, while  the  cry  of  the  bat  and  the  cushat  re-echoes 
in  her  temples ;  for  the  glories  of  past  ages  serve  but  as 
monuments  to  the  vandalism  of  the  warrior,  as  well  as  of 
the  highly-educated  Christian, — the  history-grubber,  the 
antique-robber,  of  the  last  centuries. 

Did  not  a  pair  of  rival  painters  deal  less  gently  with 
the  pride  of  Greece — the  Acropolis — than  did  Philip, 
Xerxes,  or  the  Venetian  bombs? 

Only  one  man,  with  a  soul,  could  look  upon  the  wrecks 
which  strew  this  fair  shore  unmoved, — and  he  was  a  syno- 
nym for  patience  and  had  no  definite  ideas  of  art, — the 
patriarch  of  Uz. 

But  Pauline's  joy-brimming  eyes  saw  no  spectres  of  the 
past  to  disturb  the  serenity  of  her  blissful  present,  nor  did 
she  even  try  to  look  pensive  while  Faucett  told  her  the 
story  of  Penelope,  whose  sad,  questioning  gaze  had  swept 
these  same  shimmering  billows  long  ago,  or  pointed  out  to 
her  the  towering  rock  from  which  Sappho  took  her  fatal 
leap.  I  fear  she  even  felt  somewhat  bored  when  Dyke's 
adulation  of  herself  was  momentarily  interrupted  to  show 


320 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE   GODS. 


her  the  various  objects  of  interest  all  about  them.  She 
did  not  care  to  see  the  island  where  Homer  dreamed  his 
grand  old  dreams  with  sightless  eyes  turned  ever  towards 
this  murmuring  sea;  nor  to  hear  how  Virgil,  drinking 
inspiration  from  its  illimitable  beauty,  wrought  out  upon 
its  shores  his  ^neid,  and  peopled  every  glen  and  cave  and 
stream  with  nymphs  and  sibyls  and  nereids,  centuries  ago. 

"  And  now  the  land  where  Tasso  sung  is  silent,"  Dyke 
would  conclude,  "and  only  the  song  of  the  mermaid 
breaks  the  monotonous  murmur  of  the  waves,  or  perhaps 
the  wail  of  the  mariner  whose  trust  has  been  betrayed  by 
this  treacherous  sea,  which  has  lured  many  a  brave  ship, 
many  a  fisher's  ca'ique,  to  sudden  doom." 

"And  these  beautiful,  cruel  waves  close  over  their 
nameless  graves  and  leave  no  sign  I"  cried  Pauline,  shud- 
dering. "Ah,  Dyke,  you  terrify  rael"  And  she  glanced 
fearfully  over  the  sun-lighted  sea.  Instantly  she  shook 
off  the  momentary  depression,  and,  with  a  beaming  smile, 
took  up  once  more  the  thread  of  conversation. 

"And  what  if  these  'classic  shores'  yield  us  no  more 
poets,  do  they  not  furnish  us  with  an  indispensable  hors 
d'ceuvre,  the  olive?  And  if  those  'sacred  groves'  you 
speak  of  boast  no  more  temples,  I  am  sure  it  is  from  them 
you  procure  this  delicious  honey  in  the  comb,  which  is 
my  delight !    Que  voiilez-vous ,  man  ami?'''' 

And  Dyke  would  be  forced  to  smile  at  this  utilitarian 
view  of  things  and  change  the  subject. 

And  now  the  sun  is  setting  in  sheets  of  lurid  flame. 
Dyke  and  Pauline  are  pacing  the  deck  together,  arm-in- 
arm, feeling  strangely  happy;  wondering. a  little  at  their 
own  content ;  noting  not  the  unusual  oppressiveness  of 
the  atmosplure. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  their  cruise  ;  to-morrow  they  were 
to  enter  port. 


THE   MILLS    OF  THE    GODS.  321 

Through  the  stiUness  of  the  evening  they  could  hear 
the  whistle  of  the  curlew  as  he  flew  over  their  heads,  while 
the  sound  of  a  fish  leaping  from  the  water  and  falling 
back  into  it  again  was  as  distinctly  audible.  A  faint  veil 
of  cloud  dimmed  the  light  of  the  stars,  and  towards  the 
east  there  arose  a  dark  outline  against  the  sky. 

Pauline  had  been  gayer,  brighter,  more  amusing  than 
ever,  all  through  that  day;  and  now  she  broke  forth  with 
unwearying  vivacity  into  the  refrain  of  a  chansojinette 
which  was  set  to  a  charming  little  air  of  which  Dyke  was 
very  fond. 

"  '  Jeunesse  trop  coquette,' 

she  warbled  in  the  soft  twilight, 

"  '  Ecoutez  la  lecon 

Que  vous  fait  Henriette 
Et  son  amant  Damon ' 


Oh,  Dyke  !    What  is  ihatf 

Abruptly  the  song  was  hushed  as  she  crept  closer  to 
Faucett's  side,  fairly  cowering  with  terror  as  a  strange 
sound  suddenly  arose  in  the  air.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
the  darkness  all  at  once  had  spread  over  the  twilight,  and 
that  all  about  them  sounded  threatening  voices,  muttering 
hoarsely,  ominously,  of  danger  to  come  !  A  moment  she 
stood,  and  listened  with  awe-struck  eyes,  and  then  she 
clung  to  Dyke,  crying  out  in  French,  "  Why  do  you  not 
answer  me?     What  is  this  roar  and  sudden  darkness?" 

"It  is  nothing,  ma  mie T  replied  Dyke,  caressing  her, 
while  his  eyes  anxiously  noted  the  quick-gathered  clouds. 

A  sudden  gust  of  wind  now  struck  the  yacht  on  the  bows, 
causing  her  to  stagger  and  reel  for  an  instant.  Pauline 
gave  a  little  hysterical  scream  and  hid  her  face  on  Dyke's 
breast. 

"  Do  not  be  frightened  !"  he  urged.  "  There  is  no  pos- 
sibility of  danger  in  a  yacht  of  this  size,  even  if  we  sliould 


322 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


be  in  for  a  squall.  You  must  come  down  below,  cherie, 
and  in  the  lighted  cabin  3'ou  will  forget  the  storm  out- 
side." 

Silently  she  allowed  him  to  lead  her  down  the  com- 
panion-way to  the  cabin,  where  dinner  was  served,  and 
where  brilliant  lights  and  the  air  of  luxurious  comfort 
for  a  moment  seemed  to  dissipate  her  fears. 

But  only  for  a  moment.  Dyke  poured  out  a  glass  of 
wine  and  held  it  towards  her;  and,  as  she  took  it,  a 
hissing,  bubbling  noise  sounded  directly  about  the  yacht, 
as  if  she  had  been  suddenly  plunged  into  a  huge  boiling 
caldron,  and  she  rolled  and  tossed  and  pitched  franti- 
cally for  some  minutes.  The  glass  fell  from  Pauline's 
trembling  hand  and  lay  shivered  amid  tlie  fragments  of 
costly  bits  of  Sevres  and  crystal  which,  during  this  last 
convulsion  of  the  sea,  had  been  dashed  off  the  table. 

All  traces  of  confusion  in  the  cabin  were  quickly  cleared 
away  by  the  well-trained  servants,  who,  with  white,  scared 
faces,  found  comfort  in  bustling  about. 

Pauline  had  thrown  herself  prone  on  a  couch,  and,  with 
hands  pressed  tightly  over  her  ears,  was  sobbing  hysteri- 
cally. Dyke,  after  directing  her  maid  to  bring  a  warm 
shawl  to  cover  her  mistress,  and  bidding  her  remain  with 
her,  mounted  hastily  to  the  deck. 

The  sky  was  now  one  entire  black  pall,  through  which 
an  occasional  flash  of  lurid  lightning  struck  like  a  tongue 
of  flame.  All  the  winds  of  heaven  seemed  to  be  engaged 
in  a  wild  warfare, — roaring  through  the  black  mountains 
of  waves,  sweeping  before  their  fierce  gusts  the  well-built, 
graceful  yacht  like  an  egg-shell  on  these  hissing  billows 
of  foam. 

Dyke  Faucett,  drenched  to  the  skin, — for  they  were 
shipping  seas  every  moment, — could  scarcely  make  him- 
self heard  above  the  roar  of  the  tempest,  as  lie  addressed 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  323 

the  captain,  a  good  sailor,  and  with  some  experience  of 
these  sudden,  treacherous  squalls  for  which  the  Mediter- 
ranean is  noted.  "Will  it  be  serious,  think  you?"  called 
out  Faucett ;  and  he  was  answered, — 

"  Cannot  tell  yet,  sir.  The  wind  may  go  down  as 
suddenly  as  it  rose."  Then  followed  some  orders  to  the 
sailors,  and  he  resumed  :  "  We  are  off  a  bad  bit  of  coast 
here,  sir.  I  am  sorry  you  would  not  consent  to  remain 
out  at  sea  to-day,  but  madame  would  not  hear  of  it,  and 
now  the  gale  is  driving  us  into  shore ;  but,  please  God, 
the  wind  may  veer  at  any  moment." 

"But  the  engines?"  began  Dyke. 

"  Fires  out,  sir ;  couldn't  stand  against  these  seas  ;  our 
only  hope  is  in  the  wind.  I  told  you  I  didn't  like  those 
curlews  flying  about  us  all  day." 

When  Dyke  re-entered  the  cabin,  his  blanched  face  told 
its  tale  to  the  terrified  woman,  who  raised  her  head  as  he 
knelt  on  the  floor  beside  the  couch  and  called  her  by 
name, — "  Do  not  leave  me  again,"  she  entreated,  piteously. 
"  Oh,  Dyke,  do  not  let  me  drown ;  save  me  1  save  me  !" 
she  wailed. 

"Pauline,  I  can  do  nothing,"  he  said.  "We  must 
hope  for  the  best;  perhaps  at  midnight  the  wind  may 
change." 

"Oh,  why  did  I  come?"  she  cried.  "Why  did  I 
tempt  you  to  bring  me  here  on  this  cruel,  treacherous 
sea?  Oh,  Dyke,  I  cannot  die;  I  must  not!  1  tell  you 
you  must  save  me!"  And  she  started  to  her  feet,  and 
stood  before  him,  in  her  satin  and  lace,  with  the  jewels 
flashing  in  her  ears  and  about  her  snow-white  throat,  with 
her  soft,  dark  eyes  wild  with  fear,  and  the  crimson  struck 
out  of  her  lips  with  terror.  And  then  broke  over  the 
deck  a  mountain-wave,  and  the  yacht  shivered  and 
creaked   in   every  timber,  while    the   sullen    roar  of   the 


324 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    CODS. 


waters  was  deafening.  Down  on  her  knees  Pauline  sank 
with  a  shrill  cry. 

Dyke  felt  that  they  were  going  clown.  He  sat  quite 
still,  awaiting  his  doom.  And  in  those  dread  minutes, 
before  the  yacht  righted  herself  and  once  more  rode 
gallantly  over  the  surging  waves,  there  arose  before  this 
man  a  condensed  panorama  of  his  life. 

Of  the  faces  which  passed  in  review  before  him,  of  the 
lives  he  had  wrecked  and  the  hearts  he  had  broken,  there 
was  not  one  missing.  Of  the  wasted  talents  and  the  ill- 
spent  years,  of  the  heartless  selfishness  and  the  base  in- 
gratitude, and  the  great  mistake  he  had  made  of  his  life, 
he  realized  to  the  very  uttermost  extent  in  those  dreary 
moments  whilst  he  sat  waiting  for  death,  with  Pauline  lying 
crouched  at  his  feet  in  merciful  insensibility  till  the  end. 

Boom  !  went  the  signal-gun  of  distress,  but  the  hoarse 
voice  of  the  storm  drowned  its  sad  call  for  aid  ; — still  the 
tempest  raged  with  unabated  fury.  The  "  lo"  deserved 
the  encomiums  which  had  greeted  her  appearance  every- 
where, by  weathering  the  assaults  of  wind  and  sea  for 
hours  after  another  vessel  would  have  gone  surely  to  its 
doom. 

Boom !    Boom  ! 

And  still  Dyke  Faucett  sat  there  motionless,  with  one 
hand  covering  his  eyes;  and  still  the  book  of  his  life  lay 
open  before  his  mental  gaze  and  tortured  him.  Now  and 
again  a  low  moan  broke  forth  from  his  lips,  as  out  of  the 
crowded  phantoms  of  the  past  the  white,  tender,  pleading 
face  of  Dora,  as  he  saw  it  last,  stood  distinct  and  clear  as 
marble  against  the  black  background  of  his  memories. 
Like  the  angel  of  Retribution  she  stood  before  him,  with 
her  sad,  reproachful  eyes  fixed  full  upon  his,  muruuiring 
always  in  his  ear,  "You  did  love  me  once,  Dyke;  you 
did  love  me  then." 


THE   MILLS    OF   771  E    GODS.  325 

How  differently  would  she  have  met  this  fate  !  And  he 
had  cast  her  aside  for  this  weak  creature  who  lies  at  his 
feet  faint  from  fear  ! 

"Oh,  God!  Dora,  turn  your  eyes  away,  or  I  shall  go 
mad!" 


CHAPTER    XV. 

The  morning  dawned  grayly.  Fierce  gusts  of  wind 
were  still  blowing,  but  rain  was  falling  and  the  sea  was 
growing  calmer,  sobbing  sullenly  like  a  child  after  a  terri- 
ble fit  of  passion. 

In  spite  of  the  weather,  all  along  the  coast  people  were 
swarming  from  all  directions. 

The  demons  of  the  storm  had  been  wildly  active  on  the 
sea  over-night.  Barrels,  planks,  bits  of  spars,  were  float- 
ing about,  telling  the  story  of  the  wrecks  on  that  dread 
coast.  And  there,  where  the  people  crowd  most  eagerly, 
lies  stranded  on  the  rocks  the  saddest  wreck  of  all, — the 
bruised  and  broken  carcass  of  the  beautiful  yacht  "lo," 
— from  which  is  speedily  being  stripped  every  article  of 
value,  and  from  whose  cabin  have  been  removed  at  early 
dawn  three  bodies,  drowned  within  a  step  of  land. 

The  cure  of  the  village  had  taken  possession  of  the 
bodies,  and,  finding  in  Dyke's  pocket-book  full  particulars 
of  his  guardian's  name,  address,  etc.,  had  sent  imme- 
diately the  telegram  which  was  forwarded  from  Ellingham 
to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and  which,  on  her  bridal  morning, 
struck  with  fatal  cruelty  the  heart  of  Florence  EUesmere. 
So,  even  after  his  death,  this  man  had  power  of  evil  ! 

With  the  exception  of  the  cook  (an  obese  Frenchman 
of  the  fatalistic  school,  who  (quietly  awaited  death  amidst 

2S 


326  THE   MILLS    OF   TILE    GODS. 

his  saucepans),  the  bodies  of  Pauline,  Dyke  Faucett,  and 
Celestine,  the  maid,  were  the  only  ones  which  escaped 
being  washed  away  from  the  wreck.  During  the  following 
day,  the  sea  gave  up  the  dead  forms  of  the  stalwart  English 
sailors,  who  had  spent  their  futile  strength  in  battling  with 
those  angry  waters,  in  a  vain  effort  to  swim  to  shore. 

Lying  in  a  ghastly  row  on  the  sandy  beach,  those 
noble-looking  fellows,  with  wide-open  eyes  staring  up  into 
the  blue  heavens,  whence  the  sun  poured  down  its  glory 
on  the  rippling,  dancing  waves,  which  scarce  forty-eight 
hours  ago  had  beaten  the  life  out  of  their  sturdy  limbs 
and  stifled  the  pulses  of  their  brave  hearts  forever ! 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

Sir  Philip  Standley  sat  alone  in  his  study  at  Ellingham 
Hall. 

Beside  him  on  the  floor  stood  an  empty  dispatch-box 
with  the  name  of  his  adopted  son  engraved  upon  a  brass 
plate  on  the  lid,  and  strewn  over  the  table  were  piles  of 
bills,  letters,  notes,  receipts,  unfilled  checks,  and  the  cus- 
tomary accumulation  of  a  careless  business  man. 

Patiently  Sir  Philip  had  gone  over  each  document ; 
methodically  and  neatly  arranged  in  separate  piles  the 
paid  and  unpaid  bills;  he  had  laid  the  loose  cash  in  a 
corner  apart;  he  had  glanced  with  a  sigh  over  sundry 
PVench  notes,  redolent  of  mille-flcurs  and  the  Quartier 
Brdda ;  he  had  mastered  the  contents  of  sundry  missives 
from  the  Marquise  de  Courboisie,  bearing  dates  as  late^as 
the  past  month  and  addressed  to  the  Isle  of  Wight  ;  and 
he  had  carefully  laid  aside  a  few  letters  written  in  a  deli- 
cate, clear  English  hand,  and  signed,  "Your  loving  wife, 


THE   MILLS    OF  THE    GODS.  327 

Dora  Fairfax  Faucett,"  until  such  time  as  lie  could  clear 
away  this  rubbish,  which  he  felt  was  unworthy  to  be  asso- 
ciated with  her  correspondence. 

At  length  all  was  arranged  ;  the  French  and  English 
billets-doux  had  perished  in  the  wood-fire  which  burned 
by  Sir  Philip's  side  ;  notes  had  been  carefully  made  which 
might  be  useful,  and  a  list  of  indebtedness  stood  ready 
with  frlled-up  checks  upon  it.  And  then  Sir  Philip  drew 
towards  him  the  fair,  clean  pages  on  which  Dora  had  poured 
forth  her  girlish  fondness,her  wifely  devotion,  her  frenzied 
grief  at  Dyke's  desertion  of  herself  and  child.  These 
letters,  dated  Rome,  Tours,  and  Paris,  revealed  the  whole 
agonizing  truth  to  him.  This  man,  on  whom  he  had 
wasted  the  entire  affection  of  his  nature,  to  whom  he 
had  transferred  the  whole-souled  devotion  which,  had  he 
been  able,  he  would  fain  have  bestowed  upon  Dyke's 
mother,  had  deceived  him  basely;  through  all  those  last 
six  years  he  had  been  a  living  lie  !  "Pah!  it  makes  me 
shudder  to  think  of  him,  even  though  he  is  dead  I"  And 
Sir  Philip  laid  the  letters  gently  down,  and  paced  the 
room  in  a  wild  tumult  of  grief,  disgust,  and  indignation. 

"And  this  poor  girl, — this  inn-e-hearted,  high-spirited 
creature,  whom  he  must  needs  crush  under  his  merciless 
heel  !  Oh,  Dyke,  Dyke,  what  a  curse  did  my  beloved 
Constance  leave  behind  her  1  May  God  have  mercy  on 
you,  my  poor  boy!"  And  tears  coursed  down  the  old 
man's  cheek  as  he  sank  again  into  his  arm-chair,  while  the 
picture  of  a  noble-looking  child,  with  one  arm  thrown 
across  the  back  of  a  superb  St.  Bernard  dog, — with  the 
sunlight  bringing  out  the  gold  in  his  curls  and  lighting  up 
the  laughing  blue  eyes, — caught  his  gaze,  hanging,  as  it 
did,  directly  over  his  study-table. 

A  long  time  Sir  Philip  sat  dreaming,  with  his  eyes  fast- 
ened upon  the  fair  boy  who  had  fdled  his  lonely  heart,  and 


328  THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

gradually  his  anger  fled,  his  feelings  softened,  and  never 
again  did  a  harsh  thought  of  the  dead  cross  his  mind. 

And  then  his  thoughts  turned  to  the  living,  and,  taking 
up  a  delicately-tinted  photograph  of  Dora,  he  studied  her 
sweet  face  and  graceful  figure  carefully.  "  She  is  a  lady," 
he  said  to  himself, — "  thank  Heaven  for  that,  for  she  must 
be  found,  and  immediately."  He  arose  slowly,  and, 
jmtting  aside  her  letters  in  a  locked  drawer,  pulled  the 
bell. 

"Has  Burrows  returned?"  he  inquired  of  the  servant. 

"No,  Sir  Philip.  Ah,  yes,  there  he  is  now,  coming 
through  the  park.     Shall  I  call  him,  sir?" 

"  Send  him  to  me  at  once,"  answered  his  master. 

A  moment  later.  Burrows  entered. 

He  was  a  small,  wiry  individual,  with  the  face  of  a 
terrier,  a  clear  brain,  indomitable  perseverance  and  energy, 
and  a  great  power  of  holding  on.  By  profession  he  was 
an  attorney,  by  inclination  he  was  factotum  in  the  house 
of  Sir  Philip  Standley,  for  whom  he  had  a  real  respect 
and  affection.  He  was  honest  and  thoroughly  trustworthy, 
and  in  Sir  Philip's  absences  from  home  it  was  an  under- 
stood thing  throughout  the  establishment  that  Mr.  Jonas 
Burrows  acted  as  vicegerent.  Strange  to  say,  the  servants 
liked  him,  and  even  Sir  Philip's  own  man  and  the  gray- 
haired  steward,  who  had  grown  old  and  feeble  on  the  estate 
which  he  now  only  nominally  managed,  were  condescend- 
ingly cordial  to  him.  For  Burrows  never  put  on  any  airs, 
and  was  kindly  disposed  towards  everybody. 

"Good-morning,  Burrows.  Pray  seat  yourself  near  the 
fire ;  this  is  cold  weather  for  October.  Did  you  return 
by  the  10.30  train  ?' 

"Yes,  Sir  Philip;  I  made  no  delay,  knowing  how 
anxious  you  would  feel." 

"Thanks.     You  saw — the  bodies  yourself?" 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


329 


"  I  saw  them,  and  recognized  Mr.  Faucett.  There  were 
several  friends  of  the  lady's  who  arrived  before  me,  having 
been  telegraphed  by  the  hotel-keeper  at  St.  Malo,  where 
I  believe  the  yacht  lay  for  a  time,  and  where  they  embarked. 
These  gentlemen  took  possession  of  the  bodies  of  the  lady 
and  her  maid,  and  their  luggage,  some  of  which  had  been 
washed  ashore.  I  believe  they  started  for  Paris  last  night." 
"And  you,"  asked  Sir  Philip, — "you  fulfilled  my  in- 
structions?" 

"To  the  letter,  Sir  Philip.  Mr.  Faucett's  remains  are 
now  at  the  Ellingham  Station,  and  I  am  awaiting  further 
instructions." 

Sir  Philip  silently  extended  his  hand  and  pressed  that 
of  the  little  attorney,  whose  shrewd  gray  eyes  glistened 
with  delight  at  this  mark  of  approval. 

"You  will  make  all  preparations  for  the  funeral,  if  you 
please.  Burrows,"  began  Sir  Philip,  after  a  few  moments, 
during  which  he  had  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand.  "  I 
should  prefer  it  to  be  as  quiet  as  possible,  and  to  take 
place  immediately.     Can — can  I  see  the  body?" 

"  I  think  it  better  not,  my  dear  sir;  there  is  much  dis- 
coloration, and — it  would  be  a  very  painful  sight  to  you 
now." 

"Very  well,"  replied  Sir  Philip,  with  a  deep  sigh.  "And 
now,  my  good  friend,  leave  me  for  a  little  while.  You  will 
find  luncheon  laid  in  the  dining-room  ;  and  afterwards 
1  wish  to  consult  you  on  another  very  important  matter." 
"  And  you,  Sir  Philip?  Shall  you  not  take  anything? 
Let  me  send  you  at  least  a  glass  of  port  and  a  biscuit." 

"  As  you  please,"  answered  the  old  gentleman,  wearily. 
But  when  the  glass  of  port  and  biscuit  presented  them- 
selves, supplemented  by  a  couple  of  delicate  slices  of  cold 
fowl,  Sir  Philip  mechanically  regaletl  himself  for  the  first 

time  that  day.    And  when  little  Burrows  answered  his  sum- 

2S* 


330  THE  MILLS   OF  THE   GODS. 

mons,  feeling  immensely  refreshed  by  his  hearty  luncheon, 
he  found  his  patron  looking  far  brighter  and  more  busi- 
ness-like than  when  he  had  left  him. 

5}i  ^  5jc  5j^  jji  jp  yf-  *I* 

"We  must  employ  detectives,  Sir  Philip;  there  lies 
your  only  hope  of  ever  discovering  this  lady,  who,  you 
say,  does  not  even  bear  her  husband's  name." 

"  No,"  answered  Sir  Philip,  referring  to  one  of  the  pile 
of  letters  scattered  before  him,  in  which  poor  Dora  re- 
proaches Dyke  for  this  unwarrantable  exaction, — "no, 
she  goes  by  her  maiden  name,  Fairfax.  This  last  letter 
written  in  Paris,  addressed  to  No.  lo  Rue  Royale,  where 
Mr.  Faucett  was  living  at  this  date  (September  2,  1870), 
— for  I  corresponded  with  him  at  that  time, — comes 
from  a  street  in  the  Latin  quarter,  Rue  de  Vaugirard, 
No.  7." 

"And  this  is  the  last  trace  you  have  of  her, — and  just 
prior  to  the  siege ;  I  have  very  little  hope.  Sir  Philip,  but 
I  shall  do  my  very  best." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  answered  the  old  gentleman,  heartily. 
"And,  Burrows,  spare  no  expense;  employ  detectives; 
use  the  telegraph.  Remember  only  this,  she  mustbefoiuid. 
Justice  must  be  done — if  she  lives  !  Shall  you  require 
these  letters?" 

"No,  Sir  Philip;  I  have  made  all  necessary  extracts, 
and  now  I  must  leave  you,  if  you  please,  to  arrange  for 
the  funeral  to-morrow.  To-night  I  go  up  to  London, 
and  before  to-morrow  mid-day  you  shall  hear  from  the 
Rue  de  Vaugirard.  Good-morning,  Sir  Philip.  Ah, 
many  thanks!"  as  his  grateful  patron  pressed  into  his 
hand  a  well-filled  check,  and,  rising,  bowed  him  out  as 
politely  as  if  he  had  been  an  ambassador  from  a  foreign 
court. 

That  night  a  telegram  from  London  reached  Sir  Philip, 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  331 

and  proved  to  his  satisfaction  that  the  machinery  was 
working  already  which  was  to  atone  for  part  of  the  evil 
done  by  his  too  fondly-trusted  adopted  son.  It  contained 
these  words  : 

"Send  the  photograph  of  the  lady  by  first  express  to 

No. Street,  London,  under  cover  to  me.     Coll- 

yers  is  hopeful  of  success  ;  leaves  to-night  for  Paris. 

' '  Jonas  Burrows.  ' ' 


CHAPTER     XVII. 

"  Oh,  mais  oui,  monsieur  !  I  remember  her  perfectly, 
bless  her  pretty  face ;  she  rented  two  rooms  of  me,  au 
quatrieme,  for  herself  and  her  father  (poor  old  gentle- 
man, he  was  killed,  you  see,  sir,  during  the  siege),  and 
the  beautiful  little  child.  What  has  come  to  that  angel,  I 
wonder?" 

"When  was  this?"  broke  in  Mr.  Collyers,  impatient 
of  the  old  woman's  garrulity, — "in  September  last?" 

"Yes,  monsieur,  the  old  gentleman  was  killed  in  Sep- 
tember; shot  down  just  in  front  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville, 
where  he  was  standing  as  peaceable  as  a  lamb  ;  and  was 
just  brought  home  by  the  young  surgeon,  as  if  he  was  his 
own  son,  sir,  so  tender  was  he  with  the  body,  which  I 
helped  to  lay  out ;  and  I  must  say,  a  more  beautiful 
corpse  and  a  more  natural  I  never " 

"  Voyons  !'"  again  interrupted  the  detective,  "do  you 
see  these?"  And  lie  took  from  his  pocket-book  a  couple 
of  gold  coins.  "You  shall  have  these  if  you  can  give  me 
two  plain  answers  to  two  cjucstions  without  <?//)•  more  iin- 


332  THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

necessary  talk.  How  long  ago  did  Madame  Fairfax  leave 
your  rooms  ?" 

"She  left  them  and  went  to  the  English  Ambulance 
Hospital  about  the  first  of  October.  I  know,  because  she 
came  to  me  in  July  and  she  paid  me  for  two  months  in 
advance,  and  when  they  had  expired,  Paris  was  besieged, 
— she  could  get  no  more  money;  and  you  know,  mon- 
sieur, I  could  not  let  the  rooms  without  pay,  being  a  poor 
widow,  and " 

"  Did  you  ever  see  her  after  she  left  you  ?" 

"  No,  monsieur,  I  never  saw  her  again.  I  fear  she  died 
of  want, — she  and  the  little  one, — for  they  were  both  very 
delicate — and  meat  was  dear  ;  and  indeed  I  have  made 
my  dinner  of  a  rat-pate,  and  been  glad  to  get  it " 

"  Tiens  !''  broke  in  Collyers,  dropping  the  gold  pieces 
into  her  outstretched  palm.  "  Where  does  this  English 
Ambulance  find  itself?" 

"  Ah,  it  is  all  broken  up  now,  monsieur;  it  was  only  a 
temporary  hospital  during  the  war.  Bonjour,  monsieur, 
mille  remerchnents.'^  And  she  turned  to  re-enter  the 
porte-cochere,  leaving  Mr.  Collyers  in  a  rather  despairing 
frame  of  mind.  At  that  moment  the  concierge  of  the 
house  opposite  appeared  in  the  gateway ;  at  a  signal  from 
her  neighbor  she  crossed  the  street ;  Mr.  Collyers  waited. 
Old  Benoit  approached  her  cap-frills  to  those  of  her 
comrade,  and  whispered,  "  Void  tin  milord  Anglais ;  he 
wants  information  concerning  cette  pativre  petite  dame 
Fairfax.      He  pays  well,  my  dear." 

Her  friend  took  the  cue  instantly.  With  a  low  curtsy 
and  a  suave  smile  she  addressed  Collyers:  ^^  Pardon, 
monsieur ;  but  perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  assist  you.  In 
my  appartement  an  cinqideme  lodged  Monsieur  Buchanan, 
monsieur  /' '  Triumphantly  she  spoke,  while  her  eyes  glis- 
tened at  the  prospect  of  English  gold. 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  ^^2,^ 

"And  who  the  devil  is  Buchanan?"  quoth  Collyers, 
mildly  surveying  her  appartcmcnt  an  ciitquicnie  from  the 
street,  and  trying  thereby  to  deduce  some  important  in- 
formation respecting  its  former  occupant. 

"Monsieur  Buchanan  was  the  surgeon,  sir, — the  sur- 
geon, and  the  bon  ami  of  Madame  Fairfax  !  He  it  was  who 
took  her  to  the  Hospital,  and  who  sent  me  to  her  constantly 
with  food  and  wine,  when  we  were  all  starving  in  Paris. 
He  it  was  who,  in  saving  a  family  from  death  in  a  burn- 
ing house,  was  injured  so  badly  that  he  was  obliged  to  give 
up  his  practice  and  leave  Paris.  And  he  did  not  leave  sa 
chere  aiiiie  behind  him.  They  went  away  a  party  of  four, 
and  the  little  child  ,  and  I knoiu  where  they  went  f  She 
stopped  suddenly,  and  closed  her  lips  resolutely. 

"This  becomes  interesting,  ma  bonne  dame,''  began 
Collyers,  again  having  recourse  to  his  well-supplied 
pocket-book.  "  Will  you  do  me  the  honor  of  drinking  a 
bottle  of  wine  with  your  good  man  to  my  health?"  And 
he  handed  her  a  glittering  testimonial  of  his  appreciation 
of  her  valuable  reticence.  "  They  went,  you  said,  out  of 
Paris?"  he  began. 

''  Merci  mille  fois,  monsieur .'  Yes,  they  drove  out  to  St. 
Denis,  where  I  afterward  sent  part  of  Monsieur  Buchan- 
an's luggage ;  the  remainder — his  instrument-cases  and 
books — I  sent  only  last  week  to  him  in  England." 

"What  street  and  number  did  you  say  at  St.  Denis?" 
queried  Collyers,  with  note-book  in  hand. 

"  No. Rue  de  la  r>ergere,"  replied  the  old  woman. 

"  Thanks.  I  have  the  honor  to  bid  you  good-morning, 
mesdamcs!"  And,  saluting  them  profoundly,  the  milord 
Anglais  jumped  into  the  fiacre  which  awaited  lum,  and 
directed  tlie  man  to  drive  out  to  St.  Denis. 

En  route  he  stopped  at  the  telegraph-office,  and  sent 
the  following  lines  to — 


334  ^-^^^   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 

"Jonas  Burrows,  Ellingham,  Kent: 

"On  the  right  scent.  The  lady  lives, — interview  her 
in  half  an  hour. 

"COLLYERS." 

As  the  gentleman-like  detective  reseated  himself  in  the 
fiacre,  after  dispatching  the  above  bit  of  encouragement 
to  England,  he  took  off  his  hat,  and  passed  his  fingers 
through  his  crisp,  sandy  locks  with  a  smile  of  complacent 
content  on  his  mild  physiognomy.  He  was  most  agree- 
ably disappointed.  This  had  looked  a  discouraging  under- 
taking, seen  from  the  other  side  of  the  Channel,  only 
yesterday,  and  now  here  he  had  his  bird  in  his  hand 
already,  all  owing  to  his  patience  with  the  voluble  old 
Frenchwoman ;  and  he  sank  into  a  pleasant  reverie, 
which  was  brought  to  an  abrupt  conclusion  by  the  stop- 
ping of  the  fiacre  at  the  door  of  a  villa-looking  house  in 
a  suburb  of  St.  Denis. 

He  alighted,  and  smiling  graciously  at  the  neat  bonne 
who  answered  his  ring,  he  inquired  for  Madame  Fairfax, 
who  resided  there.  But  the  girl  shook  her  head,  and 
assured  liim  that  there  was  no  lady  of  that  name  in  the 
house  at  present ;  there  had  been  an  English  lady,  with 
her  little  girl  and  man-servant,  but  she  could  not  say 
that  the  name  was  Fairfax;  perhaps  she  had  better  call 
madame  ? 

"  Do  so,  ma  chere  fiUe,  I  beg  of  you  ;  time  presses,  and 
I  must  have  the  address  of  this  lady  you  speak  of." 

The  girl  retreated,  and  soon  the  proprietress  of  tlie 
villa  appeared  in  her  widow's  weeds  and  cap.  She  invited 
the  gentleman  to  enter,  and,  seated  in  her  cosy  parlor, 
she  told  him  all  she  knew  of  the  lady  he  sought. 

"  Madame  Fairfax  occupied  rooms  in  my  house  during 
the  past  four  months,  and  I  had  hoped  lo  have  kept  her 


THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  335 

for  the  winter,  but  letters  from  England  seemed  to  liave 
troubled  her  somewhat,  and  she  left  quite  suddenly,  pay- 
ing a  fortnight  in  advance,  although  I  did  not  wish  her 
to  do  so,  and  left  no  address  with  me." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  no  idea  where  she 
intended  to  go?  Was  there  no  address  on  her  luggage? 
What  train  did  she  take?"  asked  the  crest-fallen  detective, 
eagerly. 

"  No,  monsieur,  her  boxes  had  no  address  ;  and  when 
I  asked  her  where  I  should  send  her  letters,  she  smiled 
very  sadly,  and  said  '  there  will  be  no  letters  for  me  now,' 
and  then  she  drove  away  in  a  fiacre,  but  where  I  know  not. ' ' 

"Was  it  one  of  the  cabs  from  the  station?"  asked 
Collyers,  desperately. 

"  Indeed,  monsieur,  I  could  not  possibly  say;  they  all 
look  alike,  and  I,  never  dreaming  that  inquiries  would  be 
made,  took  little  interest  in  it." 

"  Was  it  the  servant  who  opened  the  door  who  went 
for  the  cab?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no;  madame  had  her  own  man-servant  who 
always  attended  to  everything  for  her.  Perhaps,  sir,  they 
have  gone  to  England  ;  her  letters  were  all  English," 
volunteered  the  kind-hearted  landlady. 

"  Perhaps,"  assented  the  detective,  dubiously.  "  I  am 
under  infinite  obligations  to  you,  madame,"  rising  and 
bowing  low,  "and  should  feel  grateful  if  you  would  send 
me  word  to  this  address,  should  any  letters  arrive  for  or 
from  Madame  Fairfax,  or  should  you  gain  any  information 
regarding  her  whereabouts." 

Madame  promised  to  do  so,  and,  taking  the  card  he 
offered,  she  bowed  him  out. 

As  he  repassed  the  telegraph-ofifice  he  stopped  the 
carriage,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  finally  scrawled  the 
following  message : 


336  THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 

"To  Jonas  Burrows,  Esq.,  Ellingham,  Kent: 

"  Bird  flown, — all  trace  lost.  Believe  her  to  be  in  Paris. 
If  so,  will  find  her. 

"COLLYERS." 

As  the  detective,  feeling  very  hungry  and  somewhat 
discouraged,  descended  from  his  fiacre  in  front  of  Meu- 
rice's,  a  lady  with  a  little  girl  were  at  the  same  moment 
alighting  from  an  omnibus  just  before  him.  Suddenly 
the  lady  gave  a  slight  scream.  The  child  had  slipped  off 
the  step  of  the  omnibus,  and  would  have  probably  been 
injured  in  the  crowd  of  vehicles  had  not  Mr.  Collyers 
sprung  forward,  seized  the  little  girl  in  his  arms,  and 
restored  her  to  her  mother,  who  waited  in  breathless 
anxiety  on  the  pavement. 

''Je  vous  remercie,  monsieur!"  cried  Dora,  pressing 
her  darling  to  her  bosom,  while  a  sweet  smile  of  gratitude 
lighted  up  her  pale,  sad  face. 

Mr.  Collyers  raised  his  hat,  with  a  muttered  "II  n'y  a 
pas  de  quoi,  madame,"  and  entered  \\\c  porte-cochere  of 
the  Hotel  Meurice,  whilst  his  thoughts  reverted  to  the 
puzzling  question,  "Where  under  heaven  has  that  woman 
hidden  herself?" 

After  an  excellent /a/V^-^V/^Vif  dinner,  Mr.  Collyers  took 
a  stroll  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  and  finally  dropped 
into  the  "Varietes,"  where  he  spent  the  entr'actes  in 
conjecture  and  vigorously  plying  with  questions  a  French 
detective  with  whom  he  had  once  been  associated  and 
whom  he  met  at  the  entrance  to  the  theatre.  The  latter 
obligingly  gave  him  all  the  information  in  his  power,  but 
strongly  advised  his  returning  to  England,  as  it  was  more 
than  probable  the  object  of  his  search  had  left  France. 
But  there  was  something  of  the  bull-dog  about  Collyers. 
He  had  got  the  idea  firmly  rooted  in  his  mind  that  Dora 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


337 


was  in  Paris,  and  he  meant  toiind  her  ther-c.  Before  he 
retired  to  rest  that  night,  he  had  resolved  to  pay  another 
visit  to  the  elderly  concierge  who  had  rented  her  apparte- 
ment  au  cifjquicme  to  the  young  surgeon  Buchanan.  He 
was  far  from  despairing  yet. 


.  CHAPTER    XVIII. 

FROM    DORA    FAIRFAX    TO    AGNES    OGILVIE. 

"  St.  Denis,  September  28. 

"Agnes,  I  am  wretched!  My  burden  is  too  heavy 
for  me  to  bear.  You  are  right ;  I  have  been  writing  you 
with  a  feigned  cheerfulness  of  late.  How  could  I  bear  to 
cast  a  shadow  on  your  joyousness?  And  now  my  strength 
is  all  gone,  and  I  am  sinking.  I  feel  like  a  frail  bark 
tossed  on  a  wild,  stormy  sea.  Another  wave,  a  little 
stronger  than  the  last,  will  wreck  me  utterly. 

"For,  Agnes,  I  am  forced  to  leave  this  peaceful  shelter 
in  which  I  rested  ;  I  am  obliged  to  go  out  once  more  into 
the  great,  troubled  Avorld,  where  I  feel  such  a  mere  help- 
less atom  in  the  great  whirling  rush  of  humanity.  When 
this  letter  reaches  you,  I  shall  have  left  St.  Denis  forever. 

"  You  will  have  guessed  before  my  pen  traces  the  words, 
dear,  why  I  have  thus  resolved.  You  will  feel  with  me, 
my  strong,  pure-hearted  Agnes,  that  Ronald  Buchanan 
and  I  have  met  for  the  last  time  in  this  life;  and  you,  too, 
know  well  the  anguish  these  words  cost  me.  Never  to 
see  him  again  !  never  to  hear  that  low,  firm  voice  which 
always  brought  strength  and  comfort  in  its  tones;  never 
to  see  that  noble,  earnest  face,  those  clear  blue  eyes, 
that  kindly  smile!  Oh,  Agnes,  is  this  sin?  Can  it  be 
p  29 


338 


THE   MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 


wrong  for  me  to  love  him,  to  reverence  him,  to  pray  for 
him  in  my  loneliness,  my  desolation  ?  If  so,  the  God  of 
Mercy  who  forgave  much  to  her  who  '  loved  much'  will 
pardon  me. 

"What  agony  it  causes  me  to  fly  from  him ! — for  he  writes 
me  that  he  will  come  (he  may  be  here  any  day,  Agnes), 
and  I  have  not  courage  to  warn  him  that  he  will  not  find 
me  !  For  I  shall  leave  no  address,  and  no  one  shall  be 
told,  save  your  dear  self,  in  what  corner  of  the  wide  world 
I  will  hide  myself  and  Marian.  There  I  will  strive  to  live 
patiently  until  the  end,  which,  please  God,  may  not  be 
far  off;  for  now,  Agnes,  since  your  last  dear  letter  brought 
me  the  blessed  promise  of  your  loving  care  for  my  little 
one,  I  feel  that  I  can  wait  calmly,  thankfully,  with  just  the 
same 

'  Patience  as  a  blade  of  grass 
Grows  by,  contented  in  the  heat  and  cold" 

until  the  day  comes  when  I  can  creep  into  my  mother's 
arms,  in  the  land  where  the  weary  and  heavy-laden  are 
promised  rest  at  last. 

"  Farewell,  dear  Agnes.  Ah,  what  would  I  give  to  feel 
your  loving  arms  about  me  !  How  often  do  I  live  over 
those  dear,  sad  days  in  the  Hospital  ! 

"  '  When  I  remember  something  which  I  had, 

And  which  is  gone,  .  .  .  and  I  must  do  without; 
When  I  remember  this,  I  mourn,  .  .  .  but  yet. 
My  happiest  days  are  not  the  days  when  Y^forget.' 

"  Good-by  again,  dear.      I  will  write  )0u  from  our  new 

home. 

"  Dora  Faucett." 

(For  to  Agnes  alone  had  Dora  confided  her  true  name 
and  the  entire  sad  story  of  her  life  at  last !) 

The  tears  fell  fast  upon  this  letter  as  her  friend  perused 


THE   MILLS   OF  TILE    GODS.  33Q 

its  sad  lines,  and  when  Dick  gayly  entered  his  wife's  little 
sitting-room,  shortly  after,  he  found  her  weeping  bitterly. 

He  threw  himself  down  beside  her  on  the  lounge  and 
took  her  little  figure  in  his  strong  arms,  whilst  he  half 
coaxed,  half  commanded  her  to  "dry  up  those  tears  and 
not  make  a  fright  of  yourself,  my  darling,  for  I  have  got 
some  glorious  news  for  you,  Agnes,  and  you  shall  not 
hear  it  until  I've  seen  you  smile." 

Agnes  had  some  of  a  woman's  weakness,  although  she 
was  very  nearly  perfect,  so  she  smiled  instantly  through 
her  tears,  crying,  "  What  is  it  ?  Oh,  do  tell  me  !  Is  she 
coming  here?" 

"Now  just  listen  to  her!"  cried  Dick,  apostrophizing 
an  imaginary  being  in  the  background.  "  '  Is  she  coming 
here?'     Who?" 

"Why,  Dora,  of  course,"  replied  Agnes.  "Oh,  Dick, 
I  have  had  the  most  broken-hearted  letter  from  her  to-day  ! 
Dick,  I  must  go  to  her,  or  she  must  come  here  ;  she  is  ill, 
and  obliged  to  leave  St.  Denis,  and— oh,  Dick!"  And, 
hiding  her  face  on  his  broad  chest,  she  sobbed  again. 

"  All  right,  Agnes  !"  cried  Dick,  who  never  could  abide 
hysterics.  "Cheer  up,  my  girl  !  Dora  is  all  over  her 
trouble  now;   that  ras — that  husband  of  hers  is  dead  !" 

"  Dead  !"  exclaimed  Agnes,  starting  to  her  feet  with 
excitement.     "  Dead  !     Oh,  thank  God  !" 

"  Pious,"  ejaculated  Dick,  "  but  uncomplimentary." 

"  Dead  !"  again  exclaimed  Agnes.  "  Can  it  be  possi- 
ble?    How?     When?     Where?" 

"One  at  a  time,  please,"  urged  Dick;  "  I  never  was 
good  at  multiplication.  It  seems  he  was  wrecked  in  his 
yacht,  off  the  coast  somewhere.  The  Times  has  a  full 
account  of  it;  here  it  is."  And  he  drew  from  his  pocket 
a  copy  and  spread  it  out  before  Agnes,  who,  without 
glancing  at  it,  went  on  : 


340 


THE  MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 


"Oh,  Dick,  I  am  so  glad  !  Does  she  know  it,  do  you 
think?  I  will  write  to  her  at  once;  but,"  here  her  face 
grew  troubled  again,  "  where  is  she?" 

"  At  St.  Denis,  to  be  sure,"  said  Dick. 

"  Ah,  no,  she  left  there  yesterday  ;  but  she  has  promised 
to  write  to  me  immediately.  Dick,  would  you  mind 
sending  to  the  post  now  ?  there  may  be  a  letter,  you 
know." 

Dick  smiled.  "It  would  be  useless,  dear;  there  can- 
not possibly  be  another  mail  from  France  already.  See 
here,  Agnes,  if  you  will  be  good,  and  stop  crying  di- 
rectly, 1  will  do  something  towards  finding  your  friend  for 
you." 

"How?  What  can  you  do?  Oh,  Dick,  if  she  were 
only  in  England,  safe  and  well,  I  should  be  content !" 

"  No,  you  wouldn't ;  even  if  she  were  here,  and  safe,  you 
two  would  find  something  to  wail  over, — unless  Buchanan 
were  on  the  programme  !  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  shall 
do :  I  mean  to  run  up  to  London  to  attend  this  great 
lecture  on  anatomy,  and  afterwards  I  shall  take  the  train 
down  to  '  Scrooby'  (that's  where  the  brother-in-law  par- 
son holds  forth,  is  it  not  ?)  and  have  a  talk  with  Ronald, 
and  tell  him  that  the  coast's  clear  at  last !" 

"  Oh,  you  dear,  blessed  Dick  !"  cried  Agnes,  enthusias- 
tically. "  How  good  you  are!  When  will  you  go, — to- 
day?" 

"  Don't  be  impatient ;  I  must  have  some  cold  pasty  and 
a  bottle  of  Bass  before  I  can  move,  and  then  I  shall  catch 
the  express  up  to  town." 

Agnes  bustled  about  waiting  on  her  beloved,  packing  a 
small  valise  for  him,  while  bright  smiles  now  chased  each 
other  over  her  sunny  face.  Dick  watched  her,  through 
half-closed  lids,  with  an  expression  of  serene  content  upon 
his  honest  features. 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  341 

Presently  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door  of  their  sitting- 
room,  and  a  blithe  voice  asked,  "  May  I  come  in?" 

As  Dick  sprang  forward  to  meet  her,  Anne  Ogilvie 
entered,  carrying  a  light  wicker  basket  filled  with  ferns 
and  orchids  from  her  little  conservatory,  wherewith  she 
meant  to  "decorate  the  shrine  of  St.  Agnes,"  she  said, 
and  forthwith  commenced  to  arrange  the  exquisite  speci- 
mens tastefully  about  the  pretty  sitting-room,  which,  with 
the  rooms  en  suite,  Anne  had  dedicated  exclusively  to  the 
occupation  of  her  brother  and  his  wife, — "  So  that  you  can 
feel  perfectly  at  home,'"  she  said,  with  her  winning  smile, 
to  Agnes  on  that  first  day  of  her  meeting  with  the  bride. 
"A  region  where  you  and  Dick  can  be  all  by  yourselves 
when  you  choose,  and  where  even  /  must  be  expected  to 
be  invited  to  join  you  sometimes."  For  Anne  had  taken 
Agnes  to  her  heart  not  only  outwardly,  during  those  first 
hours  together:  she  had  so  longed  for  a  sister  all  her  life, 
and  now,  here  was  one  with  whom  she  could  find  no  fault. 
They  suited  each  other  admirably,  and  Dick  was  as  happy 
as  a  king  (in  a  fairy-tale  !). 

And  when,  after  her  husband  had  discussed  the  better 
part  of  a  cold  game-pie  and  gone  off  on  his  errand  of 
mercy,  Agnes  and  Anne  sat  cosily  together  in  the  pretty 
drawing-room,  each  occupied  with  needle-work,  and  Agnes 
recounted  the  story  of  Dora's  life,  she  brought  ready  tears 
of  sympathy  from  the  deep-blue  eyes  of  her  eagerly  inter- 
ested friend. 

"Something  must  be  done  immediately,"  concluded 
Agnes;  "for,  Anne,  I  feel  sure  she  is  dying;  her  letters 
lately  have  been. so  sad,  so  despairing  !" 

"I  agree  with  Dick,  "  began  Anne,  wiping  her  eyes, 
and  drawing  nearer  to  Agnes.  "I  think  Mr.  Buclianan 
will  move  heaven  and  earth  to  find  the  jjoor  child — now, 
— and  we  must  just  sit  at  home,  and  wait  patiently  until 

29* 


342  THE  MILLS    OF  THE    GODS. 

he  does  find  her,  and  then  we  will  all  strive  to  comfort 
her,  and  fill  the  rest  of  her  life  with  joy  and  peace.  Poor 
Dora  !  I  never  heard  anything  so  sad,  so  pitiful !"  And 
in  her  heart  Anne  wondered  how  she  could  bear  to  have 
had  such  a  barrier  as  that  which  parted  Dora  and  the  man 
she  loved,  rise  up  between  her  life  and  that  of  the  man 
who  had  brought  "the  gold  and  purple  of  his  heart," 
and  laid  all  at  her  feet.  Her  great  wealth  of  happiness 
but  made  her  pity  more  tender  for  the  bare  poverty  of 
poor  Dora's  lot. 

"If  Percy  were  only  here,  with  his  clear,  strong  judg- 
ment and  his  dauntless  energy,  all  would  be  well.  He 
could  tell  us  what  to  do,  and  would  direct  Dick's  impetu- 
osity, which  may  only  alarm  Dora  and  put  her  on  her 
guard,  and  so  farther  out  of  reach.  She  doubtless  has 
heard  nothing  of  her  husband's  death,  and  may  imagine 
he  is  seeking  her  !" 

"Ah,  Dick  will  be  very  careful  not  to  startle  her;  he 
is  not  devoid  of  judgment,  if  he  is  a  little  impulsive," 
cried  loyal  Agnes  ;  "  and  Mr.  Buchanan  knows  her  better 
than  any  of  us,  I  do  believe ;  ]ie  will  be  most  guarded 
and  indefatigable." 

"No  offense  to  Dick,  darling!"  laughed  Anne,  stoop- 
ing forward  to  kiss  Agnes's  cheek;  and  then  gravely  again : 
"But  should  they  find  her  and  the  little  one,  must  they 
not  come  here,  to  us,  Agnes?" 

Her  sister's  eyes  filled  with  grateful  tears,  "  Oh,  Anne, 
what  joy  that  would  be  to  me,  and  to  Dora!" 

"And  to  Anne,"  concluded  the  latter,  with  a  smile. 

And  then  they  discussed  the  question  of  which  room  in 
the  rambling  old  house  would  be  most  cheerfiil  and  com- 
fortable for  Dora,  and  how  delighted  Marian  would  be 
with  an  English  poultry-yard  ;  and  what  a  blessed  angel 
it  was  who  had  invaded  the  recesses  of  Anne's  aged  god- 


THE  MILLS  OF  THE    GODS. 


343 


mother's  heart  in  her  last  days,  and  bestowed  through  her 
so  cheery  and  delightful  a  home  upon  three  as  homeless 
and  desolate  creatures  as  the  world  contains  ! 

And  after  they  had  talked  over  everything  appertaining 
to  their  expected  guests,  Agnes  delighted  Anne's  heart  by 
counting  up  on  her  fingers  the  exact  number  of  days 
which  must  intervene  before  the  good  ship  "  Java"  should 
land  her  passengers  at  Liverpool,  and  bring  into  their 
joyous  circle  that  one  other  link  which  (Dora  found) 
would  complete  the  golden  chain  of  love  which  bound 
them  all  together. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 


It  was  a  murky,  foggy  night  in  London  ;  the  windows 
of  the  brilliantly-lighted  shops,  dripping  with  moisture, 
allowed  little  of  their  cheerful  glow  to  brighten  the  hearts 
of  the  passers-by,  or  direct  their  slippery  footsteps,  while 
the  gas-lamps  at  the  street  corners  gave  forth  a  blear-eyed 
and  dejected  twinkle.  So  thick  was  the  fog,  that  had  it 
not  been  for  the  glaring  transparency  over  the  entrance  to 
Exeter  Hall,  Dick  Ogilvie  never  would  have  recognized 
in  the  crowd  pouring  itself  out  after  the  great  anatomist's 
lecture  the  form  and  features  of  the  very  man  of  all  others 
he  wished  most  to  meet. 

Ronald  Buchanan's  face,  under  the  glare  of  a  great  green 
letter  "A,"  looked  wan  and  careworn;  and  when  Dick, 
pushing  his  way  violently  through  the  crowd,  laid  a  hand 
on  his  friend's  shoulder,  he  could  not  but  feel  struck  by 
the  languid,  listless  greeting  which  he  received. 

Linking  his  arm  in  that  of  Buchanan,  he  said,  "  I'm  in 
luck,  dear  old  boy,  in  meeting  you  by  chance  in  this  way. 


344 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


I  was  just  about  to  start  for  Scrooby,  anci  you  have  saved 
me  a  day,  and  some  impatience,  by  turning  up  at  the  very 
right  moment." 

Ronald  looked  surprised.  "You  were  about  to  start 
for  Scrooby?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  Haven't  you  meant  all  those  invitations  you 
have  extended  to  me?"  smilingly  asked  Dick. 

"Of  course;   you  know  that;  but " 

"But  what  brings  me  down  now?  Well,  we  will  just 
step  in  here  and  have  a  bit  of  supper  quietly,  and  then  I 
shall  tell  you  some  news  which  will  gladden  your  heart, 
my  boy  !     Gad,  I  can  scarcely  keep  it !" 

"You  can  tell  me  nothing  I  care  to  hear,"  answered 
Ronald,  wearily,  seating  himself  at  a  little  table,  while 
Dick  gave  orders  for  supper. 

"We  shall  see,"  returned  Dick,  sententiously. 

"And  now,  Ronald,"  began  his  friend,  as  the  waiter 
bustled  away.     "Do  you  know  where  Mrs.  Fairfax  is?" 

Buchanan  started,  and,  leaning  eagerly  forward,  said,  in 
a  low  voice,  "Is  it  about  her?  Can  you  tell  me  where 
she  is?  If  so,  for  God's  sake  do  not  keep  me  in  sus- 
pense !"  His  face  grew  wild  and  haggard  as  he  awaited 
Dick's  reply. 

"I  cannot,"  his  friend  answered,  gravely.  "Have 
you  been  to  France  ?  or  how  did  you  guess  she  had  left 
St.  Denis?" 

"Yes.  I  have  just  returned  from  that  fool's  errand." 
Ronald  spoke  bitterly,  and  Dick  sympathized  thoroughly 
with  his  exasperating  disappointment. 

"  Could  you  gather  no  clue  from  the  people  in  the 
house  of  her  probable  destination  at  present?" 

"  None;  I  saw  the  landlady  and  all  the  servants  about 
the  place.  Nobody  seemed  to  know  anything,  excepting 
the  fact  that  Dora's  husband  (the  villain  !)  had  tracked 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  345 

her  to  this  place,  but  fortunately  after  she  had  been  warned 
and  fled." 

"  When  was  this?  I  had  not  heard  anything  of  this  !" 
cried  Ogilvie,  astonished. 

"  It  was  the  day  before  I  reached  St.  Denis  (that  is  the 
day  before  yesterday),  that  this  man  called  and  demanded 
to  see  Mrs.  Fairfax;  but  she  was  then  out  of  his  reach, 
thank  God!" 

"Yes,"  said  Dick,  with  an  unusual  solemnity  for  him. 
"She  was  certainly  out  of  his  reach  then,  Ronald,  for — 
the  man  was  dead  !" 

"What!"  exclaimed  Ronald,  starting  to  his  feet  and 
almost  overturning  the  table  in  his  excitement.  "What! 
dead?" 

"Yes,  dead!  He  was  drowned  in  his  yacht  off  the 
Mediterranean  coast  more  than  a  week  ago.  You  have 
seen  it  all  in  the  papers,  Ronald, — the  loss  of  the  '  lo', 
and  its  owner's  death  by  drowning." 

"And  is  it — can  it  be? — Is  Faucett  the  name  of  Dora's 
husband?  Is  it  this  man? — whom  I  have  met  in  Paris, — 
talked  with,  sliaken  by  the  hand  !  to  whom  I  owe  the 
wreck  of  my  whole  life ;  the  vengeance  which  God  has 
taken  out  of  my  hands  7iow  fo7-ever  I  Can  it  be?  Oh, 
Dick,  this  seems  too  improbable  !" 

"True,  nevertheless,  dear  boy.  Come,  sit  down  and 
take  it  quietly.  There  is  something  to  be  done  now.  We 
must  find  the  widow  P'' 

And  now  for  the  first  time  the  joyful  part  of  this  sudden 
intelligence  struck  upon  Ronald's  comprehension.  "  The 
widow  !" 

No  more  wrong,  no  more  sin  in  loving  her,  no  more 
flying  from  him,  or  speaking  coldly  to  him.  She  was  his 
now, — his  own  for  evermore  ! 

And  Ronald's  head  bowed  down  until  it  rested  on  his 
p* 


346  THE  MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 

clinched  hands,  utterly  oblivious  of  Dick's  presence,  of 
place,  of  time,  of  everything,  save  the  one  great,  joyful 
fact,  that  Dora  was  free  at  last ! 

Dick  waited  patiently.  There  was  great  depth  of  ten- 
derness in  his  nature, — and  his  sympathy  was  very  per- 
fect. 

When  Ogilvie  and  Buchanan  separated  for  the  few 
hours  which  remained  before  the  dawn,  each  felt  certain 
in  his  heart  that  if  Dora  lived  in  this  little  world  still,  she 
surely  would  be  found,  right  speedily. 

Ronald  slept  during  those  precious  hours,  as  he  had  not 
slept  for  months,  with  his  head  pillowed  on  the  bosom  of 
hope  and  the  dream-angel  whispering  of  joy  to  come. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

The  next  morning  Dick  and  Ronald  parted  in  ex- 
uberant spirits;  Ogilvie  returning  home,  and  Ronald 
going  on  to  the  parsonage  to  make  a  few  preparations  for 
another  trip  to  the  Continent  which  might  possibly  be 
prolonged,  and  to  tell  Lydia  the  news  of  Faucett's  death 
and  gain  her  counsel  as  to  his  own  future  movements. 

A  dozen  miles  to  the  south  of  Doncaster,  on  the  great 
Northern  Railway  line,  just  at  the  junction  of  three 
counties,  and  bordering  the  fenny  districts  of  Lincoln- 
shire, lies  the  little  village  of  Scrooby,  where  Paul  Wyn- 
gate  had  established  himself  and  his  wife  in  a  newly-built 
parsonage  adjoining  the  ancient  stone  church,  which  had 
stood  steadfast  there  for  centuries. 

Taking  no  note  of  the  monotonous  scenery  through 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


347 


which  he  was  whirling  at  the  rate  of  fifty  miles  an  hour, 
and  which  had  always  reminded  him  of  the  flat  and  unin- 
teresting country  of  Holland,  Ronald,  with  hat  drawn 
down  over  his  eyes  and  with  folded  arms,  leaned  back  in 
the  cushioned  seat  of  the  railway-carriage,  plunged  in 
profound  reflection. 

When  the  train  stopped,  for  a  moment,  on  a  wide  plain, 
at  a  miniature  station-house,  with  just  a  suggestion  of  a 
village  in  the  distance  across  some  rushy  fields,  Ronald 
barely  woke  up  in  time  to  escape  being  carried  on  beyond 
his  destination. 

Walking  swiftly  along  the  country-road  bordered  with 
poplars,  with  head  a  little  more  erect  than  usual,  and  his 
clear  eyes  filled  with  joyful  light,  he  looked  very  unlike 
the  pale,  haggard,  drooping  figure  who  emerged  in  the 
foggy  night  from  Exeter  Hall  only  a  few  hours  ago. 

Such  puppets  are  we  all,  responding  accurately  to  the 
slightest  wire-pulling ;  brain  acting  on  physique,  phy- 
sique reacting  upon  brain.  For,  humiliating  as  it  seems, 
not  only  does  the  body  tremble  and  bow  and  sink  under 
the  influence  of  the  mind,  in  abnormal  conditions,  until  we 
are  forced  to  acknowledge  not  only  that  grief  sometimes 
kills  (as  in  the  case  of  Louis  of  Holstein,  who  yielded  up 
the  ghost  as  he  knelt  by  his  wife's  dead  body),  or  that  joy 
can  be  equally  fatal  (as  when  Chilo,  one  of  the  seven 
wise  men  of  Greece,  died  from  excess  of  happiness  in 
seeing  his  son  gain  the  victory  of  Olympia),  but  also  tliat 
the  mental  powers  are  direfully  swayed  by  the  amount 
of  phosphorus  in  the  bones,  the  action  of  the  various 
vital  organs,  and  the  ganglionic  centres  ! 

Are  not  the  judgment  warped,  the  affections  narrowed, 
the  "milk  of  human  kindness"  soured,  and  the  charity 
which  cloaks  infirmities  shriveled  up,  when  dyspepsia 
fastens  its  fangs  upon  its  victim? 


348  1'i!^   MILLS    OF    THE   GODS. 

And  how  many  cases  of  suicide,  when  the  brain,  reeling 
from  its  throne,  clutches  at  the  mysterious  Unknown, 
have  resulted  from  some  cog  in  the  wheel  of  internal 
machinery  going  awry? 

And  although 

"  Men  have  died  from  time  to  time,  and  worms  have  eaten  them  ; 
But  not  for  love," — 

because  that  malady  does  not  enter  into  the  diagnosis, — it 
is  not  less  true  that  the  mental  depression  has  so  sympa- 
thetically affected  the  nervous  and  spiritual  condition,  that 
men  have  died,  and  women  too,  of  love  betrayed,  dis- 
honored, or  rejected. 

What  are  we,  then,  but  puppets  strung  on  the  wires  of 
circumstance,  with  hope,  joy,  conscience  itself,  centred  in 
the  sphial  cord  ? 

Lydia,  clipping  the  dead  leaves  from  the  evergreen 
hedge  inclosing  the  neat  grounds  about  the  parsonage, 
could  scarce  believe  that  this  was  Ronald  who  sprang  up 
the  steps  before  her  with  the  gay  lightness  of  a  boy,  call- 
ing out,  in  cheery  tones,  "  Lydia  !  where  are  you,  Lydia!" 

"  Here  I  am,  Ronald.  What  has  happened,  dear,  since 
you  sent  me  that  sad  note  yesterday?"  she  asked,  coming 
through  the  window  which  opened  from  the  study  on  the 
lawn. 

Her  brother  came  quite  close  to  her,  and,  first  stooping 
to  kiss  her  soft  cheek,  he  said,  simply,  "  Lydia,  my  Dora 
is  free  !  Her  husband  perished  in  the  wreck  of  the  yacht 
'lo.'" 

''Oh,  Ronald!  May  God  have  mercy  on  his  soul!" 
She  closed  her  eyes  a  moment  as  though  that  prayer  sprang 
from  her  heart. 

"  Can  you  guess  how  happy  I  am,  Lydia?  I  wrote  you 
how  she  had  fled  from  me ;  but  nothing  on  earth  shall 
come  between  us  now  P^ 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  349 

"Take  care,  my  darling,"  urged  his  sister,  "do  not 
speak  so  positi\ely  ;  leave  everything  in  the  hands  of  Him 
who  has  removed  this  great  obstacle  to  your  happiness 
and  hers.     All  will  be  for  the  best  in  the  end." 

"I  must  go  back  to  France  immediately,"  he  answered, 
only  replying  by  another  kiss  to  her  earnest  speech.  "And, 
Lydia,  should  I  find  Dora  ill,  or  should  I  want  yoji,  ivill 
you  come  to  me  there .?' ' 

"Certainly  I  will,  "she  answered,  cheerfully.  "And  now 
I  must  give  you  your  letters  and  papers  which  have  arrived 
since  you  left."  She  opened  a  drawer  in  the  writing- 
table  and  produced  a  budget  of  medical  journals  and 
letters.  Ronald  glanced  at  them  carelessly, — his  thoughts 
were  straying  elsewhere, — and  mechanically  opened  one 
with  whose  handwriting  he  was  unfamiliar.  He  soon  be- 
came absorbed  in  its  contents,  and  his  sister  stole  softly 
from  the  room.  The  letter  was  dated  the  previous  day, 
and  bore  the  signature  of  Sir  Philip  Standley. 

"Oct.  10. 

"To  Ronald  Buchanan,  Esq. 

"  My  dear  Sir, — You  will  pardon  my  addressing  you 
in  order  to  gain  information  which  I  have  been  assured 
you  will  be  able  and  willing  to  furnish,  viz.,  the  present 
address  of  the  lady  to  whom  you  showed  much  kindness 
during  the  late  troubles  in  Paris, — Mrs.  Dora  Fairfax 
Faucett. 

"During  the  past  week  my  agents  have  been  employed 
in  seeking  her,  to  no  avail,  and  I  am  now  driven  to  accept 
the  last  expedient  open  to  me,  and  beg  your  aid. 

"  Having  ascertained  that  you  were  in  correspondence 
with  Mrs.  Faucett  (having  obtained  your  address  through 
the  concierge  of  your  apartments  in  Paris),  I  feel  encour- 
aged  to  hope   that   through  your  instrumentality  I  may 


350 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


soon   have   it   in   my  power  to  receive  the  wife  of  my 

adopted  son  and  heir  (had  he  lived),  Mr.  Dyke  Faucett. 

"To  this  end  I  ask  your  co-operation,  and,  hoping  to 

hear  from  you  by  return  of  post, 

"  I  remain,  sir, 

"  Very  truly  yours, 

"Philip  Standley,  Bart. 
"  Ellingham  Hall,  Kent." 

"  And  I  thank  God  that  I  cannot  give  you  the  informa- 
tion you  seek  !"  cried  Ronald,  excitedly,  while  he  thrust 
the  letter  away  from  him  as  if  it  had  burned  his  hands. 
"While  she  was  wretched,  forsaken  by  that  villain, 
lonely,  ill,  and  desolate,  her  great  relations  could  ignore 
her  existence,  and  leave  her  to  perish  with  a  broken  heart 
in  a  foreign  land ;  but  now,  just  as  she  is  left  free  to  turn 
her  sweet  face  towards  me, — instead  of  hiding  it  away  from 
me, — these  grand  folks  must  step  forward  to  claim  the 
widow  of  the  heir !  But  they  shall  not  have  her ;  even 
should  I  find  her  immediately,  they  shall  never  know  it ; 
I  will  keep  her  safely ;  I  will  not  let  them  hear  from  me. 
Oh,  Heaven  !  have  I  not  suffered  enough  yet?" 

These  were  the  rebellious,  angry  thoughts  which  surged 
in  Ronald's  heart,  as  he  felt  the  keen  anguish  of  losing 
Dora  a  second  time  through  the  impassable  gulf  which 
rank  and  wealth  would  create  between  the  heiress  of  Sir 
Philip  Standley  and  the  poor  surgeon  of  a  country-town. 

"  Could  the  mistress  of  Ellingham  Hall  stoop  to  the 
village  apothecary  ?  She  could  scarcely  deign  to  employ 
his  services  save  for  the  hirelings  about  her  grand  estab- 
lishment!  Ah,  little  Dora,  I  cannot  let  you  go  now;  I 
have  waited  too  patiently  for  that."  Thinking  thus,  he 
drew  towards  him  his  letter-case,  and  indited  a  few  con- 
cise lines  to  Sir  Philip  Standley,  assuring  him  of  his  utter 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 


351 


ignorance  of  Mrs.  Faucett's  place  of  abode;  tacitly  de- 
clining to  aid  him  in  his  search  for  her;  politely  but 
firmly  giving  Sir  Philip  to  understand  that  no  future  in- 
formation need  be  sought  from  him. 

He  signed  and  sealed  this  epistle,  and  then  laying  it  on 
the  rack  where  the  letters  for  the  next  post  awaited  col- 
lection, he  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  with  a  look  of 
weary  pain  once  more  gathering  about  his  lips  and  eyes. 

Before  very  long  he  took  his  letter  once  more  in  his 
hand,  looked  at  it  lingeringly  a  moment,  and  then  tore  it 
across  and  tossed  it  into  the  fire. 

"  '  God  and  man  and  hope  abandon  me  !'  " 

he  muttered, 

"  '  But  I  to  them  and  to  myself  remain  constant!' 

I  have  no  right  to  decide  for  her  ;  it  seems  that  my 
love  is  growing  selfish,  and — I  think  only  of  my  own 
pain.  This  shall  not  be.  I  will  do  all  in  my  power  to 
restore  her  to  her  friends,  and  leave  the  rest  to — God  !" 

As  if  in  answer  to  this  resolution  the  servant  brought 
in  that  moment  the  mid-day  mail;  and  a  few  lines  from 
Dick,  written  immediately  upon  his  return  home  that 
morning,  ran  thus  : 

"Have  this  moment  arrived,  dear  old  boy,  and  Agnes 
greets  me  with  the  tidings  that  she  has  heard  from  Mrs. 
Faucett.  She  is  well,  and  living  in  Paris,  No.  13  Fau- 
bourg Poissonnicre  ;  has  heard  nothing  of  Faucett's  death. 
"Agnes  leaves  you  to  break  the  news  to  her,  and  joins 
me  in  good  wishes  for  your  happiness. 

"  Faithfully  yours, 

"Richard  Ogilvie." 


352 


THE  MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 


And  then  Ronald  took  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper  and  wrote 
a  courteous  letter  to  Sir  Philip,  giving  him  the  address  of 
the  woman  he  loved  well  enough  to  sacrifice  his  own 
selfish  longing  to  be  the  first  to  tell  her  of  her  altered 
prospects,  and  to  stand  quietly  by  and  see  her  go  out  of 
his  life  into  another  which  lay  open  to  her,. — far  away — 
from  him — and  his  small  world. 

When  Lydia  came  in  later,  she  saw  in  his  face  that  he 
had  fought  a  battle  with  himself — and  coiiquered ;  and 
though  she  did  not  know  the  grounds  of  strife,  she  felt 
that  he  had  won  a  victory  over  himself,  and  caressed  him 
with  loving  words  and  tender  hands.  And  then  he  told 
her  all. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

"  Oh,  mamma  !  What  is  this  ?  Look  at  this  beautiful 
brooch  !"  cried  Marian,  jumping  off  the  bed,  where  she 
had  been  extracting  the  contents  of  Dora's  dressing-ca.se, 
which  contained  also  her  only  jewel  which  survived  the 
siege, — the  diamond  pin  which  had  belonged  to  her 
mother. 

"Yes,  darling,"  said  Dora,  taking  the  trinket  in  her 
hand,  sadly;  "put  it  away  again  carefully  in  its  little 
case;  and,  Marian,  replace  all  those  things  again  and  lock 
the  box." 

"Yes,  mamma;  but  see,  this  mirror  in  the  lid  is  loose, 
and,  oh,  mamma,  here  is  a  letter  behind  it !  Don't  you 
want  to  read  it?" 

"A  letter?"  cried  her  mother,  stretching  forth  her 
hand  from  the  couch  where  she  lay  resting  after  a  long 
day  spent  in  seeking  pupils.  "What  letter  can  it  be? 
Ah  !"    Almost  with  a  sob  she  seized  the  yellow,  time-worn 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


353 


envelope,  still  sealed  as  when  her  motlier's  hand  last 
touched  it.  "I  had  forgotten  it,"  she  murmured,  kissing 
it  over  and  over.  "  I  had  forgotten  all  about  it,  and 
now  here  it  comes  back  to  me  at  the  time  when  I  am  most 
sad,  most  desolate.  Comes  to  me  like  a  touch  of  my  dear 
mother's  gentle  hand  upon  my  weary  head.  Oh,  mamma! 
mamma!"  And  the  tears  fell  fast  on  the  old  faded  lines 
as  she  broke  the  seal  and  opened  its  pages — with  "To 
be  opened  only  in  case  of  trouble  befalling  you  after  your 
father's  death"  inscribed  upon  the  outside  : 

"My  life  is  waning,  little  Dora,  day  by  day,  and,  as  I  let 
my  eyes  rest  on  your  golden  head,  my  one  ewe-lamb  (spared 
to  us  of  all  the  flock  !),  I  tremble  at  the  thought  of  leaving 
you  behind  me.  And  yet  I  dare  not  murmur,  knowing  as  I 
do  that  there  is  an  Arm  so  loving  and  so  powerful  that,  be- 
fore its  cherishing,  the  most  tender  mother's  care  grows 
impotent  and  vain.  To  its  protection  I  confide  you,  Dora, 
happy  in  the  knowledge  that  in  your  pure  nature'and  in- 
nocent heart  rests  now  no  germ  of  evil.  Oh,  may  they 
long  be  kept  'unspotted  from  the  world'  !  It  is  to  aid 
you  in  doing  this,  my  chikl,  that  I  have  refrained  from 
offering  the  key  which  might  open  to  your  untried  sim- 
plicity the  great,  false,  tempting  gates  of  the  world ;  the 
world  to  which  by  birtli  you  belong,  and  in  whose  gaudy, 
meretricious,  treacherous  enticements  you  will  never  find 
the  inexpressible  joy  and  repose  which,  in  our  humble 
home,  where  the  sunshine  of  love  has  never  been  clouded 
for  a  day,  have  filled  my  heart  to  overflowing,  and 
which,  in  this  sweet,  calm  twilight  of  my  life,  while  the 
shadows  of  night  encompass  me  about,  fill  the  air  with 
angel  voices,  whispering  of  duty  done,  and  the  promise 
of  life  everlasting  with  the  darlings  who  have  '  gone  be- 
fore!' 

30* 


354 


THE  MILLS   OF  THE    GODS. 


"And  you,  and  my  beloved  Vincent,  will  come  to  us 
there  !  Ah,  Dora,  my  crown  of  glory  would  be  incom- 
plete Avere  one  single  jewel  missing  at  the  last  great  day  ! 

"  And  so,  perhaps  through  erring  judgment,  I  leave  you 
to  live  out  your  Hie  in  the  primitive  simplicity  of  your  early 
childhood,  with  your  dear  father's  approval  and  consent. 

"God  grant  that  the  day  may  never  come  to  you  when 
you  will  feel  authorized  to  read  this  letter  ! 

"  My  strength  fails  me.  I  will  put,  in  few  words,  the 
knowledge  of  your  father's  antecedents,  and  my  own, 
which  may  prove  useful  to  you  should  your  path  grow  too 
rugged  for  your  tender  feet. 

"Your  father  is  the  only  son  of  Marmaduke  Vincent, 
of  Maudley,  Leicestershire.  We  have  never  held  any 
communication  with  either  his  family  or  my  own  since  we 
left  England, — forty  years  ago.  My  marriage  with  a 
nobleman,  whom  I  need  not  name,  was  thwarted  almost 
at  the  last  moment  by  my  elopement  with  your  father  1  For 
this  we  were  cut  off  forever  from  our  own  kin. 

"I  am  the  fifth  daughter  of  Lord  Laurence  Vavasour, 
thus  my  maiden  name  was  Marian  Adelaide  Vavasour.  My 
father's  estate  is  encumbered,  I  believe ;  it  lies  in shire. 

"  My  mother  died  when  I  was  born.  My  youth  was  a 
sad  one ;  only  one  face  stands  out  in  my  memory  with  an 
expression  of  kindness  in  it,  —  that  of  my  godmother, 
Lady  Marian  Oglethorpe,  of  Oglethorpe  Manor,  Shrop- 
shire. Should  she  live  still  when  you  open  this  letter — 
go  to  her  ! 

"And  now,  my  precious  one,  my  hand  is  weary,  and 
my  sight  grows  dim.  To  the  loving  Father,  who  is  now 
stretching  out  His  arms  to  me,  I  commend  you,  my  frail 
flower,  my  lily-blossom,  fit  only  to  bloom  in  the  garden 
of  our  Lord. 

"Your  Mother." 


THE   MILLS    OF   7 HE    GODS. 


355 


(Inclosed  were  a  marriage-certificate  and  that  of  Dora's 
birth.) 

As  Dora  concluded  reading  the  tender  words  which  fell 
like  dew  from  heaven  on  the  parched  flower  of  her  barren 
heart,  Marian,  who  had  been  gazing  at  her  with  startled 
eyes  since  she  had  given  up  the  terrible  yellow  letter, 
which  seemed  to  contain  cause  for  all  these  tears,  now 
drew  near  to  her  mother's  side,  and,  drawing  her  head 
down  on  her  childish  breast,  poured  forth  a  torrent  of 
loving  epithets ;  kneeling  on  the  floor  beside  her,  her 
head  raised,  and  tears  of  sympathy  in  her  bright  eyes,  she 
implored  Dora  to  speak  to  her  and  tell  her  what  that  cruel 
letter  held  to  distress  her  so.  Dora  caressed  her,  and 
strove  to  smile  and  explain  the  contents  of  the  mysterious 
packet.  So  absorbed  were  they  in  conversation,  that 
neither  heard  the  door  open  behind  them,  or  perceived 
the  figure  of  a  gray-haired  gentleman,  who  stood  quietly 
taking  in  every  detail  of  the  most  exquisite  picture  he  had 
ever  seen,  on,  or  off,  canvas. 

In  a  low  chair,  near  the  window,  sat  Dora,  in  an  atti- 
tude of  willowy  grace  which  belonged  to  her, — a  little 
languid,  perhaps,  in  pose,  but  with  a  face  instinct  with 
life, — changing  momentarily  in  expression.  Against  her 
black  dress  leaned  a  child  with  the  head  of  an  angel ; 
liquid  blue  eyes  lifted  with  adoring  love  to  her  mother's 
face;  lips  half  parted  showing  pearly  teeth  between;  a 
golden  cloud  of  hair  falling  nearly  to  the  ground  as  she 
knelt  with  head  thrown  back  in  eager  listening.  For  Dora 
was  telling  her  the  story  of  her  childhood  in  the  great 
forest  of  Virginia  (for  her  father  and  his  bride  had  fled  to 
America,  and  there  built  up  their  humble,  happy  home, 
unmolested  by  their  indignant  kindred,  who  looked  upon 
them  henceforth  as  dead);  and  as  the  sweet  voice  went  on 
like  a  strain  of  music  to  which  beautiful  thoughts  were  set, 


356  THE   MILLS   Ov    THE    GODS. 

the  tears  gathered  in  Sir  Philip  Standley's  eyes,  and  he 
with  difficulty  restrained  himself  from  stepping  forward 
and  taking  the  wife  of  his  dead  boy  in  his  arms. 

But  her  extreme  delicacy  was  so  apparent  to  him,  so 
fragile  she  looked,  he  dreaded  the  effect  of  startling  her 
even  by  his  unannounced  presence;  and  so  he  stole 
gently  out  of  the  still-open  door,  and,  encountering  a 
servant  in  the  passage,  begged  her  to  carry  his  card  to 
the  lady  in  the  little  room  beyond. 

When,  after  a  couple  of  hours  of  quiet  talk,  Sir  Philip 
stood  holding  Dora's  hand  in  his,  while  he  reiterated  his 
request  that  she  should  be  ready  to  accompany  him  home 
to  England  on  the  morrow,  the  sweet  face  raised  towards 
him  wore  a  bright  flush  of  happiness,  and  the  light  of  the 
glorious  eyes  shone  through  a  mist  of  grateful  tears. 

He  had  told  her  all,  not  excepting  Dyke's  death, — 
lightly  touching  upon  his  reticence  concerning  his  mar- 
riage,— breathing  no  word  of  his  unworthiness ;  and 
Dora  had  wept,  feeling  shocked  and  pained  that  her 
child's  father  could  never  now  hear  her  say,  "  I  forgive 
all.'"  And  then  she  had  given  Sir  Philip  her  mother's 
letter,  and  they  talked  reverently  of  her,  and  of  the  om- 
nij)otent  hand  of  Providence  which  had  at  last  brought 
him  this  solace  in  his  solitary  old  age.  With  Marian  on 
his  knee,  and  sweet  Dora  close  beside  him,  the  old  gen- 
tleman looked  happier  and  brighter  than  he  had  done  for 
many  a  long  year. 

After  the  door  had  closed  behind  him,  Dora,  still 
radiant,  drew  Marian  to  her  side,  whispering,  "My  dar- 
ling, God  has  been  so  good  to  me ;"  and  then,  falling  on 
her  knees,  tried  to  pray  for  strength  to  bear  this  happiness 
meekly,  through  intermittent  smiles  and  tears. 

Oh,  God  of  Strauss !  God  of  Renan  !  of  Herbert  Spen- 


THE   MILLS    OF   TLIE    GODS. 


357 


cer,  of  Carlyle,  of  Emerson, — or  of  any  of  those  others, 
"wise  in  their  own  conceit,"  to  whom  the  name  of  Jeho- 
vah has  become  as  unjironounceable  as  to  the  Israelite  of 
old, — is  it  at  the  feet  of  any  of  your  "strange  gods"  that 
Dora  cast  herself,  in  the  first  impulse  of  a  gratitude  which 
acknowledged  the  source  from  which  sprang  every  joy  and 
love  ? 

Or  was  it  from  the  great  "  Universum"  of  one  of  these 
Deity-creators,  or  the  "Absolute,"  the  "Ideal,"  of  the 
other,  or  from  the  "  Unknowable"  of  the  rest, — who  spend 
God-given  brains  in  the  vain  effort  to  establish  a  higher 
form  of  religion  than  that  of  Christ, — that  Dora  (as  a  type 
of  suffering  humanity),  in  the  dark  night  of  her  adversity, 
drew  comfort  and  balm  for  her  grievous  wounds? 

The  mutilators  of  our  beautiful  faith,  throned  on  the 
apex  of  their  own  sovereign  intellectuality,  which  has 
submerged  long  since  the  weak  emotions  of  the  heart, 
offer  nothing  adequate  in  exchange  for  the  marred  and 
broken  image  they  have  desecrated  ;  but,  wrapped  in  an 
egotistic  beatitude,  they  look  down  calmly  from  their 
heights  upon  the  surging,  throbbing  sea  of  humanity 
beneath  them,  breathing  over  their  heads  and  oitt  of  their 
range  of  vision  their  hazy  intangibilities,  their  misty  illu- 
sions, wondering,  in  their  own  sublime  serenity,  at  the 
blindness  of  those  who  see  not  through  their  eyes. 

In  abstract  theory,  these  men  sparkle  dazzlingly  in  the 
blue  ether  of  an  intellectual  elevation  above  the  herd  they 
lead ;  some  of  them  forming  a  constellation  which  tlireat- 
ens  almost  to  extinguish  the  steady,  trantpiil,  world- 
flooding  light  of  the  moon;  others,  brilliant  satellites 
only,  revolve  aroimd  a  larger  planet  of  wider-diffusing 
radiance. 

And  their  god  seetns  a  "very  God"  in  his  noble  pro- 
portions,  his   grand    attributes,   his  "spiritual    essence" 


358  THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

(than  which  nothing  is  more  volatile) ;  but,  when  the 
eyes  rain  tears,  they  are  blind  to  the  glitter  of  those  far- 
off,  unapproachable  stars ;  and,  when  the  heart  is  bleeding, 
it  is  surely  only  on  the  breast  where  the  loved  disciple's 
head  rested,  \\\zX  peace  is  to  he  found. 

And  it  was  there,  at  the  feet  of  the  loved  "  Master"  of 
Paul  and  Luke  and  John,  that  Dora's  tears  were  wiped 
away  ;  and  there,  also,  did  she  cast  herself  in  an  involun- 
tary impulse  of  grateful  homage,  which  in  His  sight  was 
more  eloquent  than  words. 

Marian  stood  by  her,  gently  stroking  her  cheek  with 
one  little  hand,  while  the  other  stole  about  her  neck. 
Young  as  she  was,  this  child  had  learned  the  true,  sweet 
sympathy  of  silence. 

As  Dora  knelt  with  her  head  buried  in  her  arms,  the 
past  years  returned  to  her  with  all  their  bright  and  bitter 
memories.  She  thought  of  her  childhood  in  America, 
that  joyous  season  which  knew  not  a  single  cloud ;  of  her 
life  in  Rome  before  she  met  Dyke  Faucett ;  of  her  blind 
idolatry  of  him,  and  the  subsequent  breaking  of  her  idol ; 
of  poor  Trelawney's  sad  fate;  of  Agnes  and  her  sisterly 
affection  ;  and  lastly,  with  a  deep,  hot  blush,  of  Ronald 
Buchanan.  "Would  he  ever  forgive  her  flight, — would  he 
understand   it?"   she  wondered.      "And   if  he  did,  and 

we  should  ever  meet  again But  what  folly  is  this? 

— that  I,  with  my  broken  life,  the  wreck  of  what  I  was 
once,  could  ever  dream  again  of  love  !  Oh,  that  is  all 
over,  all  passed  away  forever  ! 

"  '  Who  can  undo 
What  time  hath  done? 
Who  can  win  back  the  wind  ? 
Beckon  lost  music  from  a  broken  lute  ? 
Renew  the  redness  of  a  last  year's  rose  ?' 

Ah,  it  is  all  over  for  me  !" 


THE  MILLS   OF   THE    GODS.  359 

For  Dora  was  very  human  and  very  womanly  in  her 
great  new  glory  of  happiness.  She  could  not  grieve  for 
Dyke's  death,  although  she  reproached  herself  for  the 
want  of  power  to  do  so  ;  she  could  not  feel  sorrowful 
about  ajiy thing ;  she  could  not  regret  the  past,  and  she 
dared  not  look  far  into  the  future  which  stretched  now 
before  her,  wrapped  in  rose-colored  clouds. 

The  evening  came  on  imperceptibly,  and  Dora  was 
startled  when  a  clock  in  the  neighborhood  chimed  forth 
six  o'clock. 

She  hastily  prepared  and  gave  Marian  her  dinner, 
touching  little  herself, — so  over-strained  were  her  nerves 
that  she  felt  no  need  of  food.  And  then,  giving  the  child 
some  pictures  to  amuse  her,  she  sank  once  more  into  a 
reverie,  which  was  only  broken  by  two  little  arms  twining 
themselves  about  her  neck  and  a  sleepy  whisper  begging 
that  Marian  should  be  put  to  bed. 

But  there  was  no  possibility  of  sleep  for  Dora  that 
night ;  she  paced  the  room  in  partial  dishabille,  with  a 
restlessness  upon  her  which  almost  amounted  to  fever. 
She  unbound  her  luxuriant  hair,  and  lighting  with  unscru- 
pulous extravagance  half  a  dozen  candles,  improvising  can- 
dlesticks with  fertile  invention,  she  sat  down  before  the 
two-feet-square  bit  of  mirror  which  decorated  her  toilet- 
table  and  studied  her  own  beautiful  face  with  the  critical 
eye  of  an  artist.  She  was  almost  alarmed  when  she  first 
caught  the  feverish  glitter  of  her  great  lustrous  eyes,  and 
the  deep  flush  which  burned  on  either  cheek,  to  whicli  the 
faintest  rose  had  been  strange  so  long.  At  last  she  threw 
back  the  masses  of  hair  from  her  face,  and,  still  gazing  at 
its  brilliant  beauty,  opened  her  lips  and  caroled  forth  in 
the  stillness  of  night,  to  that  face  in  the  glass,  a  few  bars 
of  a  new  "  Ave  Maria"  she  had  been  practicing  that  day; 
for  song  was  as  natural  an  expression  of  joy  to  her  as  to 


36o 


THE   MILLS    OF   THE    GODS. 


the  little  brown  wren,  who  bursts  into  trills  of  melody, 
with  plumage  all  "  ruffled  with  the  whirlwind  of  his 
ecstasies!"   .   .   . 

She  wondered,  as  she  suddenly  checked  herself,  if  her 
brain  were  giving  way, — if  she  were  mad!  This  was 
strange  mourning  for  a  widow  of  a  fortnight !  How 
wicked,  how  cruel,  how  selfish  she  was  growing  !  she 
thought,  as  she  extinguished  part  of  the  illumination,  and 
bound  up  her  tresses,  growing  pale  and  chilled  as  she  did 
so,  and  concluding  her  unnatural  emotions  by  a  convulsive 
fit  of  weeping,  which  left  her  weak  and  weary, — too  weary 
to  make  her  preparations  for  departure,  as  she  had  intended 
to  do,  that  night ;  too  weary  for  anything  but  lying  awake 
the  greater  part  of  it,  thinking,  dreaming,  wondering  1  in 
a  glad,  restful  consciousness,  which  was  more  refreshing 
than  sleep,  and  which  even  the  sighing  of  the  autumn 
wind  outside  her  persiennes  had  no  power  to  sadden. 
For 

"  Not  all  the  whispers  that  the  soft  winds  utter 
Speak  earthly  things. 
There  mingleth  there,  sometimes,  a  gentle  flutter 
Of  angels'  wings."  .  .  . 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

A  CHEERY  group  of  four  was  assembled  in  the  cosy 
library  at  "The  Oaks,"  where  the  leaping  flame  of  the 
great  wood-fire  paled  the  soft  light  of  the  shaded  lamp 
and  brought  out  the  scarlet  of  the  holly-berries,  which 
gemmed  the  evergreen  garlands  decorating  with  festive 
luxuriance  every  arch  and  angle  and  picture-frame  in  that 
crimson-glowing  room. 


THE  MILLS   OL-  THE    GODS.  361 

How  exquisitely  the  shining  holly-leaves  contrasted  with 
the  carved  black-oak  bookcases  against  which  they  were 
festooned,  and  how  coquettishly  peeped  forth,  here  and 
there,  the  branches  of  the  mistletoe !  while  the  deep 
crimson  of  the  curtains,  shutting  out  of  sight  the  storm 
outside,  and  the  rich  carpet  of  the  same  warm  hue,  seemed 
to  fill  the  room  witli  a  smile  of  tranquil  comfort. 

It  is  Christmas  eve.  For  a  month  past  Anne  Ogilvie 
and  Agnes  had  been  busy  in  the  preparation  of  joyful  sur- 
prises which  would  bring  a  tithe  of  the  happiness  in  their 
full  hearts  to  the  desolate  ones  to  whom  even  this  merry 
season  rarely  brings  good  cheer. 

And  now  the  last  button  had  been  sewed  upon  the  neat 
little  suits  (masculine  and  feminine)  ;  the  last  plum-pud- 
ding had  been  satisfactorily  turned  out ;  the  last  gallon 
of  soup  and  the  final  form  of  jelly  had  been  pronounced 
all  that  could  be  wished  ;  and,  a  little  tired,  but  most 
supremely  content,  Agnes  and  Anne  rested  from  their 
labors,  each  in  a  great  arm-chair,  whilst  Dick  read  aloud 
a  legend  from  his  favorite  "Ingoldsby,"  and  a  low  laugh 
occasionally  issuing  from  the  shadowy  depths  of  another 
easy-chair  not  far  from  Anne's  proximity  revealed  the 
presence  of  Percy  Tyrrell,  who  made  the  fourth  in  this 
happy  quartette. 

"  Gad  !"  exclaimed  Dick,  springing  to  his  feet  and  fling- 
ing the  book  upon  the  table,  "if  '  Ingoldsby'  isn't  the 
jolliest  book  I've  ever  read,  I  would  like  to  know  where 
the  other  is  !"  Then  stretching  himself  and  yawning 
audibly,  "Beg  pardon!  But  do  you  girls  know  that 
the  dressing-bell  has  rung?  and  if  there  is  one  thing  that 
disturbs  my  equilibrium  more  than  another,  it  is  cold 
fish." 

Laughingly  they  all  scattered  to  dress  for  dinner;  not, 
however,  before  Percy,  detaining  Anne  by  a  look,  after 
Q  31 


362 


THE  MILLS    OF   THE    GOBS. 


the  others  had  disappeared,  had  whispered,  "You  have 
given  me  no  Christmas  gift,  Anne,  do  you  know  it?" 

"Certainly  I  know  it;  but  why  this  impatience?  No 
gifts  are  distributed  before  midnight.  See  what  the 
morning  will  bring  you  !"  she  laughed. 

But  he  would  not  be  pacified  or  patient.  "  No,  no  ; 
my  Christmas  gift  is  here,  behind  these  lips.  A  promise, 
Anne, — a  promise  only,  I  want  from  you.  Will  you  nol 
give  it  me,  darling?" 

"And  what  is  this  promise  you  wish  to  extort  from  me?" 
she  asked,  demurely. 

"Oh,  Anne,  you  know  it  well  ;  that  a  fortnight  from 
to-day  shall  be  our  wedding-day  !  Shall  it,  little  Anne?" 
He  leaned  forward  eagerly,  his  deep  eyes  gleaming  in  the 
firelight,  his  face  pale  with  suspense,  his  lips  smiling. 

Anne,  looking  at  him,  blushed,  and  then  suddenly, 
shyly,  stretched  forth  both  hands  to  him,  murmuring, 
"  What  can  I  say  ?  You  2c///have  your  own  way."  The 
last  word  was  smothered  in  a  tender  embrace,  from  which 
Anne,  extricating  herself  all  blushes  and  smiles,  began, 
with  mock  indignation,  to  reprove  him. 

"  And  what  were  you  doing  just  under  the  mistletoe  .?"  he 
cried  out,  with  a  joyous  laugh,  as  she  fled  up  the  stair-case, 
looking  like  a  sweet  wild  rose  which  had  been  gently 
ruffled  by  the  wind. 

One  more  interieure,  and  tlien,  dear  reader,  we  will 
shake  hands  and  wisli  each  other  God-speed. 

A  year  and  a  half  have  passed  swiftly  away  since  the 
wreck  of  the  "  lo"  and  the  subsequent  alterations  in 
Dora's  life  and  prospects,  and  the  earth  has  thrown  off  its 
dun-colored  garments  and  re-clothed  itself  in  the  green 
mantle  of  spring. 

All  the  country  about  EUingham,  whether  over  hill  or 


THE  MILLS    OF  THE    GODS.  363 

through  dale,  was  lined  by  the  blooming  hedge-rows, 
where  hawthorn,  brier,  and  the  wild  rose  form  a  tangled, 
compact,  green  w^all,  impervious  to  anything  but  the  fox- 
hunters'  rush,  and  which  causes  the  English  landscape  "  to 
blossom  like  the  rose!" 

And  now  the  delicate  perfume  of  the  hawthorn-blossom 
fills  the  breeze,  sweeping  gently  over  the  vivid  green  fields, 
where  the  blackberry  with  its  colored  flowers,  the  stone- 
bramble,  and  the  spiked  leaves  of  the  holly,  add  their 
spring  offerings  to  the  sweet  English  hedge. 

All  about  "  The  Plall"  the  young  year  wore  her  fairest 
aspect;  never  had  lawn  been  rolled  to  smoother  perfection  ; 
never  had  flowers  bloomed  in  such  wild  profusion;  never 
had  the  trees  in  the  park  worn  such  vari-tinted  green  in 
their  foliage ;  and  was  water  ever  so  limpid  before,  as  this 
calm  lake,  on  whose  bosom  rest  great  water-lilies,  with 
their  broad,  beautiful  leaves?  So  Dora  asked  herself, 
as  she  sat  under  the  shade  of  the  old  cedars,  watching 
Marian  as  she  stooped  to  caress  a  proud  peacock,  who 
strutted  with  gorgeous  feathers  spread  out  in  the  sunshine; 
and  as  the  gentle  little  girl  failed  to  make  friends  with  his 
highmightiness,  Dora  was  about  to  recall  her  to  return  to 
the  house,  when  two  gentlemen  emerged  from  a  walk 
divided  by  shrubbery  from  the  lawn  and  approached  lier. 

Dora  tried  in  vain  to  keep  her  dimples  under  proper 
control  as  she  turned  to  greet  Ronald  Buchanan,  whose 
arm  was  linked  in  that  of  Sir  Philip  Standley. 

"  We  have  come,  my  dear,"  began  the  old  gentleman, 
"to  suggest  the  propriety  of  your  going  within,  as  the  sun 
has  become  somewhat  overpowering  since  mid-day;  and 
Ronald  has  confided  to  me  the  fact  that  he  is  perishing 
for  a  little  music  !  Come,  Marian,  my  pet ;  grandpapa 
and  you  will  lead  the  way." 

"What  shall  I  sing?"   cried  happy  Dora,  improvising 


364  THE   MILLS   OF   THE    GODS. 

a  triumphant  prelude,  raising  her  beaming  eyes  to  Sir 
Philip's  face  as  he  and  Ronald  stood  eagerly  waiting  be- 
side her. 

"  Sing  the  little  Scotch  ballad  you  were  so  fond  of 
crooning  through  the  long  winter  evenings;  it  begins " 

"Oh,  I  know  !"  she  interrupted  Sir  Philip;  and,  striking 
a  few  lively  chords,  she  began, — 

"  '  Where  Cart  rins  rowin'  to  the  sea, 
By  niony  a  flow'r  and  spreading  tree, 
There  lives  a  lad, — the  lad  for  me, 

He  is  a  gallant  weaver  ! 
Oh,  1  had  wooers  aught  or  nine, 
They  gied  me  rings  and  ribbons  fine ; 
And  I  was  feared  my  heart  would  tine, 

And — I  gied  it  to  the  weaver!'  " 

As  Dora's  voice,  sweeter,  fuller  in  tone  than  ever  before, 
lingered  over  this  last  line,  Sir  Philip  gently  raised  her 
chin  with  one  finger  until  she  was  forced  to  look  into  his 
eyes,  and  then  he  said,  "Ah,  wicked  Dora!  to  cheat  me 
so  ;  this  is  not  the  song  you  sang  so  often  in  the  gloaming. 
Will  you  not  sing  that  very  one  for  me  now?" 

She  drew  his  hand  tenderly  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it, 
while  her  cheek  grew  crimson.  "  Yes,  Sir  Philip,"  she 
said,  after  a  silent  struggle;  and  after  a  plaintive  little 
prelude,  she  began, — 

"  '  My  heart  is  sair,  I  darena  tell, 

My  heart  is  sair  for  somebody ; 
I  could  wake  a  winter-night 

For  the  sake  of  somebody. 
Oh,  lion  !  for  somebody  ! 

Oh,  hey  !  for  somebody  ! 
I  wad  do — what  wad  I  not  ? 

For  the  sake  of  somebody. 

Her  voice  trembled  slightly  in  the  first  lines,  but  before 
the  old  song  ended  she  had  forgotten  her  audience  and 


THE   MILLS   OF  THE    GODS.  xd"^ 

everything  but  the  sweet,  quaint  melody,  which  rang  out 
unfettered  by  the  faintest  self-consciousness.  And  then, 
without  moving,  she  glided  into  a  stirring  march  from 
Saul,  which  she  as  suddenly  abandoned,  turning  quickly 
around  to  where  Ronald  sat,  still  absorbed  by  the  little 
Scotch  ballad  (Sir  Philip  had  yielded  to  Marian's  entreaty, 
and  wandered  off  into  the  conservatories), — 

"  Ronald  !"  began  Dora,  timidly.  "  Will  you  be  good 
enough  to  tell  me  what  first  induced  you  to  call  upon  Sir 
Philip?     Where  did  you  meet  him?" 

"I  met  him  for  the  first  time  in  his  study,  here,  at 
EUingham,  by  his  own  invitation." 

"Invitation?     Were  you  not  strangers,  then?" 

"Yes.  It  was  in  my  power  on  one  occasion  to  do  Sir 
Philip  a  service;  he  did  not  forget  it,  and  wished  to  tell 
me  so.  I  was  invited  to  come  here ;  after  some  demur,  I 
came." 

"'After  some  demur,' — oh,  Ronald!"  remonstrated 
Dora. 

"  Yes,  darling,  after  a  great  deal  of  very  serious  demur, 
during  which  I  almost  went  mad ;  for,  Dora,  you  see,  I 
was  then  but  a  country  surgeon,  and  you  were  lady  of 
EUingham  Hall !  And  even  now  that  this  noble-hearted 
old  gentleman  has  given  me  the  stewardship  of  this  vast 
estate,  and  treats  me  in  all  things  as  his  son,  I  feel  still  at 
times  a  weight  of  obligation  which " 

"Oh,  foolish  boy!"    cried  Dora,  stroking  back  with 

loving  hand  the  bonnie  brown  hair  which  had  fallen  over 

his  broad  brow,  "do  you  not  know  that  you  help  me  to 

fill    this   great,   lonely  heart,  which  without    love  would 

starve  to  death?     Sir  Philip  /oz<es  and  trusts  you,  Ronald ; 

and  if  you  have  given  him  those  inestimable  blessings,  the 

power  to  love  and  trust  a7iothrr  human  being  implicitly, 

your  obligations  are  canceled  forever." 

31* 


366  THE   MILLS    OF  -THE    GODS. 

"Do  you  really  think  so,  my  beloved?"  he  asked, 
smiling.  "Then  what  do  you  not  ojue  to  mc,  for  with 
that  power  you  have  also  invested  me  in  fullest  measure?" 

Dora's  reply  was  unheard,  save  by  Ronald,  and  he  told 
nobody ! 

Farewell,  little  Dora  !  We  leave  you  now  basking  in 
the  sunshine  of  happiness.  May  those  beautiful  eyes 
nevermore  have  their  light  quenched  by  tears  !  May 
those  tender  feet  nevermore  be  blistered  in  the  stony 
paths  through  which  they  walked  so  courageously  in  the 
past !     We  hope  that 

"  All  is  over  now, — the  hope  and  the  fear  and  the  sorrow; 
All  the  aching  of  heart,  the  weary,  unsatisfied  longing ; 
All  the  dull,  deep  pain,  and  the  constant  anguish  of  patience;" 

for  the  future  years  seem  strewn  with  Love's  fair  flowers, 
and  "  in  all  the  welkin  is  no  cloud." 


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"It  is,  on  the  whole,  remarkably 
well  told,  and  is  particularly  notable 
for  its  resemblance  to  those  older  and, 
in  some  respects,  better  models  of  com- 

The  Parasite ;   or,  How  to  Make   One's  Fortune. 

A    Comedy  in    Five    Acts.      After  the    French  of   Picard 
I2nio.     Paper  cover.     75  cents. 

y»  pleasant,  sprightly  comedy,  nn- I  character,    M-e    shoul'l    sv'pross    they 
ficeptionable  in  its  moral  and  chaste     would  find  this  a  vahK-oe  addition,  to 

In  its  language.    As  our  amateur  actor?  |  their  s'oolv." — PhilKHelfliin  Af^ 

are  always  in  pursuit  of  plays  of  this  I 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &*  CO. 
The  Old  Mam' sellers  Secret.     From  the  German  of 

E.  Marlitt,  author  of  "  Gohl    Elsie,"  etc.     By  Mrs.  A.  L. 
WlSTER.     Sixth  edition.      121T10.     Cloih.     $1,50. 

"  A  more  charming  story,  and  one  '  centrated.  compact  novels  of  tlie  day 

which,    liavnig    once    commenced,    it  |  .  .  .  And   the   work   has   the   miniits 

leemed    more    difficult    to    leave,    \\e  ,  fidelity  of  the  antlior  of '  The  Initials,' 

have  not  met  with  for  many  a  day." —  I  the  dramatic  unity  of  Reade  and  th« 
The  Round  Tahlc.  graphic    power    of    deorge    Eliot." 

"  Is  one  of  the  most  intense,  con-  |  Columbus  (O.)  Journal. 

Cold  Elsie.    Front  the  Geinnan  of  E.  JMarlitt,  author 

of   "  The    Old    Mam'selle's   Secret,"  etc.     By    Mrs.    A.    L 
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"A  charming  book.  It  absorbs 
/our  attention  from  the  title-page  to 
the  fnd." — 'I'he  Home  Circle. 


"A     charming     story     charminglj 
told." — Biiltimore  Gazette. 


Co'intcss  Giscla.     From  the  Gem  inn  of  E.  Marlitt, 

antlior    of   "  (Jold    Elsie,"    etc.     P>y    Mrs.    A.    E.    Wistf.r. 
Third  edititm.      i2mo.     Cloth.     $1.50. 

"  There  is  more  dramatic  power  in  j  est  of  the  reader  from  the  outset."— 
this  than   in  any  of  the  stories  by  the      I'ittslncrch  Gazette. 
6ame  author  that  we  have  read." — N.         "  i'lie  best  work  by  this  author."— 
O    I'lme.^.  Philadelphia  Telegraph. 

"  It  is  a  story  that  arouses  the  inter-  I 

Over    Yonder.     From  the   Gennatt   of  E.  Marlitt, 

author   of   "  Countess    Giscla,"   etc.      Third    edition.      With 
a  full-page  Illustration.     8vo.     Paper  cover.     30  cents. 

"'Over    Yonder'    is    a    charming  ant  of  the   merits  of  this  author  will 

novelette.        The    admirers    of    'Old  f.nd  in  It  a  pleasant  introduction  to  the 

Mam'selle's  Secret'  will  i;ive  it  a  glad  .  works  of  a  gifted  writer." — Daily  Sen- 

reception,  while  those  who  are  ignor-  i  iinel. 

The  Little  Moorland  Princess.     From  the  German 

of   E.  Marlitt,  author  of  "  The    Old    Mam'selle's   Secret," 

"Gold    Elsie,"  etc.     By  Mrs.  .\.  L.  WiSTER.     Fourth    cdi 

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"  It  IS  a  great  luxury  to  give  one's  self  \ 

Magdalena.       From    the    Gennan    of   E.    Marlitt, 

author  of"  Countess  Gisela,"  etc.    And  The  I  (inki.Y  Onks 

("The    Solitaries").     From    the  German   of   I'aul   Heyse. 

With  two   Illustrations.      Svo.      I'aper  cover.      35  cents. 

"We  know   of  no   way   in   which  a  |  either   of  the^e    tales.  ' — imitaiutCvi'i 
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wliiled   away    thau    by   a  i)erusal    oi  | 


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sure of  blank  verse,  and  needs  only  to 
be  broken  into  hne.  I'here  is  in  it, 
too.  (he  eloquence  of  genius." — Phila. 
Eve.  Bullet  in. 


"Tin's  work  fu/It  stistains  .he 
writer's  previous  reputation,  and  may 
be  numbered  among  the  best  of  hei 
works." — Tro})  Times. 

"Full  of  vivacity." — Fort  Wayfu 
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"  The  best  of  her  numerous  storit  E  ' 
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more,"    "  Tricotrin,' 
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Under    Two    Fla 


gs, 


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among  those  whose   refined  taste   en- 
ables  them    to  apjireciate   and   enjoj 
what  is  truly  beautiful  in  literature."- 
Albaiiy  Evening  yoitnuil. 


A  Leaf  in  the  Storm,  and  other  Novelettes.      By 

"  OuiDA,"  author  of  "  Folle-Farine,"  "  Granville  de 
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"  In  the  longest  of  these  stories,  '  A 
Branch  of  Lilac,'  the  simplicity  of  the 


narrative — so  direct  and  truthful — pro- 
duces the  highest  artistic  effect.  It 
required  high  genius  to  write  such  a 
tale  in  such  a  manner." — Philadelphia 
Press. 


Ceeil  Castleniaines  Gage,  and  other  Stories.     By 

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etc.  Revised  for  Publication  by  the  Author.  i2mo.  Cloth. 
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"The  many  works  already  in  print  I  to  the  stock  of  pleasing  narratives  and 
by  this  versatile  authoress  have  estab-  adveulures  alive  to  the  memory  of  ali 
lislied  her  reputation  as  a  novelist,  and  I  who  are  f,  ven  to  rr)manceaiid  tlciion  " 
lliese  short   stories  contribute  largely  1  — New  Haven  Journal. 


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Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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